“I rank up if you win first place today.”
A ringing echoed in her ears.
“And if I lose?”
He grimaced. “Don’t worry about it.”
“And if I lose?” she pressed.
“I lose my position.”
The ringing grew until the world tilted. Gaetan would geteverythinghe’d ever wanted if she defied Nikolas and won. No more piled-up bills, no more scraping by. He would own Gaetan’s Boulangerie in more than just name. He would become a real baker and not some puppet on the end of a Directeur’s string.
“What if I place in the middle?” she whispered.
“I stay where I’m at.”
Fourth or fifth place, then. She had no other choice. She wondered, then, if perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence Gaetan was here—if Nik knew who he was to Elara. Was this all a ruse to manipulate her into placing lower in the contest?
Not like she had a chance of beating Anespérer’s greatest chefs and bakers. Mama’s recipes were good, but they could only carry her so far. Fernand had been right. There was no hope of winning.
Souverain Faucher’s voice carried across the garden. “In five minutes, we’ll begin. Chefs, you’ll find an overabundance of staple items at your stations. Flour, eggs, salt, sugar. But here”—she motioned to a table placed near the dais at the center of the labyrinth—“you’ll find a limited amount of rare, powerful ingredients.”
A servant removed the cover, revealing a few jars and baskets with spices and produce. She recognized only a handful of ingredients; among them she singled out glace mint and blister bark, perfect for the dull magie Nik wanted her to perform.
“You will have five minutes to discuss which two ingredients you will work with.” The vines atop the crest of the dais shifted, revealing a clock. “After, your assistants will rush forward to claim your ingredients. Begin.”
The rest of the chefs started immediately, chattering and brainstorming together like old friends.
“What are we choosing, Ellie?” Gaetan asked. “I see some ripe—”
“We’ll make îles flottantes,” she said flatly, flipping to a page in her recipe book with little floating islands of meringue on lakes of custard. “The meringue will be made with glace mint and the custard warmed by blister bark.”
Gaetan snorted. “The last time I made îles flottantes, I was your age. It’s outdated.”
“It’s classic.”
“It’s old.” He tapped the book. “Your mother was damn good, but—”
“Say another word about her, and I’ll forfeit,” she hissed, glaring up at the dais, where the Souverains were blissfully ignorant.
A terse, quiet moment passed between them before Gaetan spoke again.
“Reconsider this dessert. Illusionary magie is an amateur’s game. You’ve been doing that since you were ten! What happened to the girl so desperate to prove herself?”
She’d been crushed by this week. Broken by every rule, social stigma, or harsh reality doled out by the Counseil and their upper elite. She also wanted to keep Gaetan out of the Counseil’s targets.
“TIME!” Faucher shouted.
The other contestants readied their partners to run.
“You have two hours to create something truly spectacular.”
The air went still.
No breeze.
“GO!”
