“Patrons, in a moment, you and your chefs will enter the ballroom,where you will be guided to a specific location. You will be submerged in utter darkness, so do not move until Souverain Tremblay releases you.”
The words were unimportant. Elara was turning the small ring that concealed the tattoo beneath. The others wouldn’t tell him where she got it nor who the artist was. They’d simply had Elara demonstrate that the magie worked and told him to stay out of everything else. Once again, Nik had been shoved on the outside to watch Elara float through her day, trusting everyone else but him. Except he wasn’t jealous. Not anymore. Midnights still belonged to them.
He was afraid, though. What if the tattoo failed? What if the Counseil figured her out? The police would descend upon her, and he would never see her again.
The servant produced a lantern and guided them through the crack in the door.
They were, indeed, plunged into true darkness. Beside him, Elara shuffled close enough for her skirts to brush his legs.
One by one, the servant deposited each patron and chef pairing at seemingly random locations before moving a few hundred feet farther along whatever path they were on.
Nik and Elara were positioned last. Without the scuff of feet, it was easier to realize how cavernous the room was. Small signs of life echoed from above: muffled giggling, stifled coughs, a murmur of conversation. Nik sketched the blueprint in his mind: Tremblay’s ballroom was notoriously the largest of the Souverain chateaus, made to expand and change levels for her grand art shows. Seating had somehow been constructed above them, leaving the ballroom floor as the stage.
He reached out a palm into what should’ve been open space, only to be met with the feel of an ice-cold wall. Strange.
Lights burst on.
After his eyes adjusted, it made sense.
The Souverains were gathered in a balcony two stories up and to their left. Golden light refracted off their alabaster attire, giving them an ethereal air.
Unlike the first contest, which had been more garden party than grueling competition, they were dressed for battle. Their outfits were made of sharp angles and material that resembled armor. Even Lafontaine wore what might’ve been a lab coat if it weren’t for the tapered sleeves and high collar.
Is Auclair a weakness?
“Nik.”
Her voice was small. So small.
She was pulling at the buttons of her coat.
“I can’t do this. I can’t…”
Instinct, he told himself, made him reach out and grab her hands. Instinct made him rub small circles across her fingers. And instinct made him step close enough so she could look into his eyes.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe with me.”
Chantal had taught him this trick back when he worked in the theatre and was terrified of resetting a broken ankle. A deep inhale, a pause, then a slow exhale. Repeat. Elara followed him until they were a vision of symmetry—two halves of the same painting, bent together, bathed in residual light from the Counseil, who now seemed so far away.
“We’ll figure this out,” he whispered. “Together.”
He had no idea how, but he would work his hardest between now and the end of the round to figure out how to silence Fiona or wrap the Counseil around his version of the truth. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid. He would do anything to save her, to help her survive this.
Because there was only one Elara Rousseau.
Souverain Tremblay’s voice erupted around the room. “Patrons, if you would join us!”
Elara turned only to stop and look back with wide eyes.
Nik didn’t remember reaching for her, but he had a hold on her bicep, fingers pressed into the soft warmth of her arm, wishing he could feel beneath the chef’s coat to her skin. His heart cracked against his ribs. What was he doing? Elara didn’t have time for him and his messy emotions, and she certainly didn’t need him.
Except she looked at him as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded. No one hadeverlooked at him that way before, like he was the most important person in the room.
“Patrons!”
“I’ll be up there,” he whispered.If you need me.He didn’t dare risk the embarrassment of saying it and being rejected.
He released her, following the servant into the dark.
