Chapter 33
Josée couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Sure, Mélias had framed it as an effort to “foster friendship,” but once money entered the picture, the dynamic changed entirely.
"How much?" she asked.
“Fifty deniers.”
“Hm, that’s not exactly a fortune…”
“I can throw in some extra info too. I’ve got a rough idea of the standards for commercial publishing offers and literary award selections.”
Florent said it like he was offering a weather report, but something about it left a sour taste in Josée’s mouth.
(He’s an informant.)
Once hailed for his overflowing talent, Florent had drifted from publisher to publisher, and now he was selling industry secrets. That could only mean one thing—his information was accurate. Too accurate. So much so that no one trusted him anymore.
(He’s scraping by selling scraps of intel. No wonder publishers are keeping their distance.)
The editors who once believed in him must have shared those standards in good faith, hoping he’d blossom into a successful author. But instead of using that knowledge to improve his craft, Florent had realized he could make quick money peddling it to desperate writers. It was easier than writing novels, after all. So he gave up on being a creator and embraced life as an informant.
Some of that info was confidential. Editors who heard their own words coming back to them from strangers would’ve felt utterly betrayed. Even the most talented writer can't survive in the industry if they lose an editor’s trust.
(Informants can’t be trusted. Even in the palace, I’ve learned that the hard way.)
Sensing danger, Josée feigned disinterest and stepped back. Arsène, however, stepped forward, stuffing a few bills into Florent’s pocket.
Josée scanned the room for Lisette. She spotted her amid Count Phil’s entourage—the host of today’s event. They were embroiled in a heated debate ahead of the review session.
“No, the main character’s emotional shift is too abrupt. Readers won’t be able to keep up.”
“But after going through something that traumatic, it’s only natural he’d become cynical, right?”
“Still, couldn’t the story take a more uplifting turn? I think readers will drop off if it stays this bleak.”
They were practically at each other’s throats. Lisette leaned in and whispered to Josée.
“This kind of thing happens all the time at the salon. They pick fights over literature just to feel superior. It’s like a hobby for them—criticizing other writers.”
“Are they professors or something?”
“Nope. The one on the right is Barnabé de Calvet. The one on the left is Raymond de Cés. Nobles, both of them. Total amateurs.”
“Huh. If they’ve got that much time and energy, maybe they should focus on their writing and try actually winning an award.”
“Hey now, Josée. No need to go straight for the jugular.”
One thing was clear: the authors gathered here were all a little... eccentric. Maybe that was just the nature of writers.
---
Afternoon rolled around.
At a square-shaped table, the five doujinshi contributors—Barnabé, Raymond, Florent, Arsène, and Lisette—took their seats.
Josée, attending as Lisette’s companion, sat behind her, observing from the sidelines.
At the head of the table sat Mélias, Brian, and the event’s host, Count Phil. The review session began.
Mélias took the lead.
“First off, thank you all for letting me read your work today. Each piece was powerful in its own right—easily on par with professional fiction. I’ll be sharing my thoughts now, but please take them as just one perspective to help guide your future writing.”
He was buttering them up first, softening the blow for the critiques to come.
“Let’s begin with Mr. Barnabé’s ‘Dark Night.’ Despite its somber tone, I found it to be a profound exploration of the darkness within the human soul. The depiction of a nighttime battlefield was especially vivid. I understand Mr. Barnabé once served as a supply officer in combat? That experience lent the story a strong sense of realism. That said, I do wish there had been more of a narrative arc. At times, it felt more like a journal entry than a story.”
Barnabé nodded, clearly pleased with the assessment.
“Next is Mr. Raymond’s ‘City of Flowers’—a romance that crosses class boundaries, set in the outskirts of Tranlene. Or perhaps... Lord Raymond is speaking from personal experience?” Mélias gave a wry smile. “It’s a shame it was written from a female perspective. There were quite a few moments that didn’t ring true for female readers. If you rewrote it from a male point of view, it might resonate more broadly.”
Raymond looked like he wanted to protest, but thought better of it in front of such a towering literary figure.
“Now, Mr. Florent’s ‘The Cake Shop Assault’—a comedic farce. As expected of a professional, the pacing was relentless, pulling the reader along with impressive force. However, I struggled to grasp the core focus or intent behind the chaos. Since this comes from a seasoned writer, I’ll be direct: it felt like you had something meaningful to convey, but it all unraveled halfway through. Leaving things to the reader’s imagination isn’t the same as making your story incomprehensible. Please don’t abandon your central theme midway.”
Florent pouted but said nothing. Clearly, something had struck a nerve.
“Mr. Arsène’s ‘Flowers by the Shore’ offered a beautifully rendered landscape. If I’m being blunt, it’s more of a ‘strolling essay’ than a story—but there’s a mysterious charm that draws the reader in. I think that’s thanks to the sheer quality of your prose. Writers like you are rare, but there’s definitely a readership for this kind of work. If the opportunity arises, you might consider writing travel essays.”
Arsène lit up at the unexpected praise.
Lisette, on the other hand, looked more anxious than ever. Seeing her so tense, Josée found herself growing nervous too.
“Ms. Lisette’s ‘Caged Little Bird’ is—”