The word was a shock through his system. He’d used it to describe her long before he met her. Now, with all her complications and nuances, it was difficult to remember that’s all she could ever be.
“What would you do otherwise?” he asked. “Let’s say you don’t become Souverain; what would you like to happen?”
She reached for the recipe book, the one he now knew came from a rebel. A murderer. Carefully, she flipped a few pages—probably to conceal her mother’s name—and revealed a page near the back.
“My mother started the design before I was born. Some of my earliest memories are helping her dream up this place.”
It was a faded drawing of a café. The design was rudimentary at best. Not a single window or brick was drawn to scale, and the colors were offputtingly bright despite the sketch’s age. The margins were filled with doodles and quickly jotted-down notes for desserts to sell and events to plan.
“Whenever she felt hopeless, she’d add something new to Café Divin.”
“She wanted to be a Directeur,” Nik said.
“Except no one in the Restes ever rises higher than Professionnelle.”
Except Gaetan now. Thanks to Elara, he would be the first Directeur in decades to beat the system. In a few hours, when the Restes heard the news from the flyers, there would be celebration and hope. It would be a conduit for change.
But for now, Nik was here, with Elara.
He read the notes in the margins.
Tutoring.
Patio for artists.
Instruments inside for musicians.
No magie needed.
“Café Divin could be a place to welcome anyone who wants to learn,” she explained. “Baking, painting, music, art. It could be a refuge.” Her voice grew sad, a rare emotion for her. Except now he knew the bravado was a cover. This moment? This vulnerability? It was all for him. “I just wish my mother could’ve made it happen.”
Nik wanted those things too.
Which meant he and Corinne Rousseau had, at one point, been fighting for the same thing. Except Nik wouldn’t have to murder to get what he wanted.
“It’s a nice dream,” he heard himself saying. “But we live in a cruel world where art—a part of a person’s very soul—determines power, fame, and fortune. Except it isn’t based on merit or dedication. It’s based on usefulness and wealth and what you can bring to the Sociétés.”
“Then let me show them what I can do,” she begged. “Let me keep going howIwant to compete.”
He raked a hand through his curls, then across his face. “You’re not the only one stuck in this mess.”
He should’ve left it there and found a way to direct the conversation back to safer ground. But she was inches away, and all that intense focus was on him. Lafontaine would call him a fool, but he… he wasn’t here right now. Damn Chantal and her suggestions. Hours ago, he wouldn’t have considered it, but now? Nikwantedto tell her.
“My mother died when I was fifteen,” he said, voice shaking.
“What happened to her?” she asked.
He could tell her. The truth would twist her up inside until she was crushed with guilt. A few days ago, he would’ve done it without mercy. But the reality was that she couldn’t be blamed for her mother’s actions.
“I like to think of who she used to be,” he said. “She was quiet, yet somehow bold. The room never stopped for her, but it didn’t stop people from shiftingaroundher. It was magie, how she could turn even the meanest drunk into a kitten.”
The first time she’d tempered a bar fight had terrified and awed Nik.
“She loved gardening, even practiced it long enough in secret to breed a new species of lavender. A hybrid strong enough to truly calm the nerves. Almost to a meditative state.”
Elara looked to her cup. “The tea. The window boxes.”
He nodded. “I learned enough to keep the plant alive.”
