**Chapter 35**
The promised eighteenth day had arrived.
At noon, the brothel opened its doors. Lisette and Josée were already busy making preparations, awaiting the arrival of Madame Mélias, the author, and Brian, her editor. They laid out lunch on the salon floor, tidied the rooms, and ensured that everything was in perfect order.
Madame Mélias and Brian showed up a little behind schedule.
"Hello. ...Oh my! You even prepared a meal for us?"
"This is what we typically serve out on the floor. Feel free to feature it in your article."
The four of them uncorked a bottle of wine and toasted. They nibbled on seafood canapés and herb-marinated cheese, then moved on to tomato and bell pepper jelly served in wine glasses—part appetizer, part dessert.
"What a delightful way to start a meal," Madame Mélias said, clearly impressed.
"We usually don’t serve full courses. Most of our patrons just order small plates to go with their drinks. But today is a special occasion."
A five-pasta sampler followed, served with bread, and chicken in mustard sauce as the main course. Dessert was a light black tea chiffon cake. After the meal, Madame Mélias leaned back, gazing dreamily up at the ceiling.
"Ah... I can see why the gentlemen keep coming back."
"Surprisingly, some even bring women. That’s why we’re particular about the ingredients. We do everything we can to turn their companions into repeat customers too."
"Hey Brian, let’s come back again sometime, okay?"
"...You do realize who’s footing the bill for this article, right?"
Josée chuckled at Madame Mélias’s innocent enthusiasm, then took over as guide. She led them on a tour through the various rooms: the opulent chinoiserie suite, the guillotine room, the punishment room, a frilly girl’s bedroom, a room styled like an office, and even one that looked like a rundown storage shed. The brothel had an eclectic array of sets, each with its own theme. Madame Mélias asked detailed questions about how clients used each space, and Lisette answered with equal precision—though the increasingly explicit content visibly drained Brian, the only man in the group.
After entertaining Madame Mélias, it was Lisette’s turn to go on the offensive—with questions of her own.
Her target: Brian.
"Mr. Brian, if I may—I'd like to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"What are the current trends in literary awards? I’m thinking of submitting something myself, so I’m curious."
Brian responded matter-of-factly.
"Judging authors’ preferences, the taste of the preliminary readers, and the intuition of the editors... all those factors mix together. In the end, it’s a matter of luck. There’s no surefire formula for winning. If there were, I’d be the first one who’d want to know it."
He paused, then added, "That said, there *are* common reasons for early rejection."
"Oh? Like what?"
Brian held up his fingers, ticking them off one by one.
"First, writing that makes no sense. That’s an instant reject. Then, stories that are vague or hesitant, where the author’s intent isn’t clear. Those get tossed too. And finally—this one’s often overlooked—a lack of 'a spirit of service.' Without that, your work won’t be seen as a product worth reading."
"A spirit of service..." Lisette echoed softly.
"Writers who genuinely want to entertain—even if their technique is rough—tend to grow. The reason your play scored so well at the last salon was exactly because of that. As an actress and a courtesan, you’re trained to serve, to please. That mindset came through in your writing. Both Madame Mélias and I saw it, and we rated your work highly."
Lisette wiggled with delight, breaking into a broad smile.
"Literature isn’t a competition. If you get caught up in winning or losing—or in whether something is good or bad—you’ll never write anything worthwhile."
"Exactly. In literary awards, the winner is the one who entertains others. But lately, with publishers offering more and more awards, the number of winners has increased. And so has the number of losers. I worry it’s creating a negative trend—especially for aspiring writers from noble families."
"...Why them in particular?"
"They assume the world is set up to reward them. They’ve never learned to lose. Yet they still believe every status or job they’ve gotten was earned purely on merit. That kind of entitlement bleeds into their writing. For them, getting published or debuting is just another box to check—another proof of superiority. But when the results don’t come, year after year..."
Josée swallowed hard. That uncomfortable feeling she’d sensed at the salon stirred again in her chest.
"...They grow envious of those who do succeed. They start blaming the publishers. That’s part of the reason Ms. Lisette was hit with so much criticism—it wasn’t personal. I’ve started to sense an almost hostile resentment toward editors and publishers. I still think salons are a valuable opportunity for aspiring writers to grow, but if you attend too often, you risk getting tangled in something darker. Lately, even when I’m invited, I find myself hesitating."
Just as the atmosphere began to weigh heavy, Lisette signaled to a black-clad attendant, who brought over a wicker box.
"...Would you like one, Mr. Brian?"
"? Sure. I’ll take one."
Lisette elegantly struck a match and lit his cigarette.
It seemed like the tension might finally ease when suddenly—
"FIRE!!"
A voice shouted from the back of the brothel, and the fire station’s bell began to clang loudly.
Moments later, Anaïs came rushing down the stairs, breathless and panicked.
"It’s bad, Josée! An apartment on Fourth Avenue is on fire!"
Fourth Avenue was a residential district close to Lirondelle. Josée’s face went pale.
"Everyone, evacuate! Head for the riverbank!"
The brothel staff, the author, and the editor hastily packed up and bolted from the building, making a beeline for the Lubton River.
Thick black smoke billowed from Fourth Avenue, curling up into the sky like a sinister omen.