Five judges entered, all wearing white and gold robes. Marron recognized the head judge immediately—the woman with hair like polished steel, the one who'd told her warmth could be beautiful.
The judges walked slowly through the room, observing each dish from a distance first. Making notes. Conferring quietly.
Marron's heart hammered in her chest.
The head judge stopped at her station. Looked at the soup. Looked at Marron.
"French onion soup," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, ma'am," Marron replied, proud of how steady her voice sounded.
"The same dish as your initial evaluation."
"Yes. But presented differently."
The judge's expression was unreadable. "We'll see." She moved on to the next station.
Marron wanted to scream. We'll see? After everything she'd learned, everything she'd worked for—we'll see?
But she held still, hands clasped, waiting.
+
