“Let her speak,” Perrault warned this time.
Elara nodded gratefully.
Upon her station there were three creations: seven spun-sugar spheres filled with smoke, a massive savory tart, and a smaller circular tart no bigger than her palm. Elara took one of the spheres from her table.
“Inside,” she said, turning it so the smoke caught the light, “is the power to remind you of what you truly desire. One breath, and you’ll feel invigorated. Voracious, even.”
She pressed her lips to the glass, then sucked. The sugar melted, releasing air into her lungs. Eyes closed, she let the feeling wash through her until determination pounded her veins.
She breathed, smoke billowing from her lips onto her dish, rushing between stacks of vegetables into a twisting channel that split the savory tart into two opposing sides.
“Oh my.” Perrault leaned down, pressing a purple monocle to one eye. “It’s Anespérer.”
“Correct, Souverain.” Elara pointed with her serving knife to the north. “I wanted to turn the humble vegetable soup into a tart. Simple, but perfect in its execution. However, I’ve elevated the components for your fine tastes. Here, in the Galerie and Belleplace neighborhoods, you’ll find succulent ingredients. Aubergines, peppers, and shallots marinated in aged balsamic topped with magie-smoked salt.”
“The magie?” Lafontaine asked, a brittle edge to his voice.
“A surprise,” she replied.
“We’ve had enough of those,” Cormier snarked.
Elara ignored him, cutting seven equal slices.
She prepared herself for the first bite.
Buttery crust melted upon her tongue, followed by the sharp pierce of balsamic over delicate vegetables. It wrapped her in comfort: warm hugs, sunrises through kitchen windows, and… lavender tea.
Elara shoved that away for later.
Briny salt coated her tongue, stealing away the soft magie. Then it took more. And more. And more.
She flashed a smile. “Enjoy.”
The Counseil ate as they had at the Exposé, as if her poverty were something they could catch through food.
She watched as inquisitive delight turned to horror. That same cavern expanded in their bellies, reducing their senses to that all-consuming emptiness. They doubled over, clutching their sides to try and stave off the pain gnawing through every nerve.
Starvation.
Hunger like this clouded the mind and dulled the senses. It hollowed your heart and destroyed your pride. It turned good people into murderers and drove a gentle woman to burning the Senate.
Elara watched them buckle against her station.
“What is this?” Gabriel snarled.
“What have you done?” Lafontaine spat.
“You may not recognize it, but what you’re feeling is starvation,” she answered evenly. “It takes days for the human body to feel this way, but I’ve packed each bite with enough desire to bring even the most satisfied to their knees.” She turned her plate idly, examining the beautiful slice. “One bite will make you dizzy. A second gives a headache. Any more, and you might waste away.”
“Why are you unaffected?” Gabriel wheezed.
“I am.” Elara finally let herself collapse, hands scrambling for purchase on the counter. Sweat broke upon her brow, and a headache overtook her. “I’m more familiar with the feeling than any of you. It’s been my constant companion for eighteen years.”
The guards closed in.
Faucher stopped them again. “Wait!”
Elara didn’t take it for granted. She stuck six spoons into the smaller tart as she said, “I wanted to show you what drove me here. What made me desperate enough to risk your wrath if I failed.”
