Fors

The brown-haired woman steadied herself, her pale blue eyes instinctively sweeping her surroundings. Seemingly realizing that the carriage had blocked the two men nearby, she smiled and gave a slight nod.

Miles and Lorry returned the gesture with polite nods.

Then she walked toward the villa.

Miles turned excitedly to Lorry, looking every bit like a fan who had spotted his idol:

"That's Miss Fors, the writer I mentioned to you before! Her Stormy Mountain Villa is one of the finest mystery novels of the past few years!

"She doesn't attend gatherings of fellow writers very often. I didn't expect her to come today..."

She probably doesn't attend many gatherings because she can't be bothered to leave home... Mr. Miles, you don't need to introduce her. I know far more about her than you do...

Lorry answered silently in his mind. His gaze shifted toward the woman's retreating back, and what he knew about her surfaced in his thoughts.

A former surgeon, now a bestselling author. Fond of tobacco, coffee, and alcohol. A chronic procrastinator who would never sit if she could lie down...

She was also a Beyonder of the Apprentice Pathway, with deep ties to the Abraham Family, and a future full member of the Tarot Club...

And someone so hopelessly laid-back that the author could never find an opportunity to put her through tragedy...

Although he had already transmigrated into the book and personally experienced becoming a Beyonder, seeing a living, breathing member of the main cast appear before him-

He still couldn't help feeling as though he were dreaming.

"Raven? Raven?"

Suddenly, Miles's voice called out beside Lorry's ear.

He turned his head and looked at Miles in confusion.

Hesitation flickered in Miles's eyes. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "Miss Fors is very easygoing, and she doesn't mind discussing literature with fellow writers who haven't made a name for themselves."

"But, Raven, that doesn't change her standards for choosing a partner."

As Lorry listened, his eyes slowly widened, filling with astonishment.

What the fuck are you even talking about... Mr. Miles, with an imagination like yours, it's a waste of talent not to switch to science fiction...

He nearly laughed in exasperation. Only with difficulty did he suppress the sense of absurdity welling up inside him and force the corners of his mouth into a faint smile.

"You're overthinking things, Mr. Miles...

"I'm simply surprised that a bestselling author like her would attend this salon."

Miles gave him a doubtful glance, then slowly nodded.

"Good, then.

"All right, let's head inside too."

Inside the villa.

Unlike Duke Negan's lavish ball, there was no dance floor, no orchestra, and no servants here-only tables along the walls on either side, laden with an array of food and drinks.

Movable screens half a person's height stood throughout the hall, dividing the remaining space irregularly into relatively private seating areas.

Each contained soft leather sofas and a somewhat larger coffee table.

By now, most of the guests had arrived.

Some carried trays and selected their favorite foods from the tables on either side. Others gathered in the open space deliberately left at the back, chatting with one another. Still others had settled straight into the little seating areas for private conversations with fellow writers they knew.

Lorry turned to look at Miles.

Miles chuckled and explained, seemingly having prepared his answer in advance:

"Mr. Altair believes a literary salon isn't an aristocrat's ball. Outside distractions should be kept to a minimum to preserve the purest possible atmosphere.

"That's why his gatherings never have singers, dancers, or an orchestra.

"Nor are there opening pleasantries or closing speeches."

"Even the servants aren't allowed to linger here. They only come by every half hour to collect empty plates and replenish the food.

"If you want something to eat, you have to fetch it yourself. If you don't feel like talking, you can simply choose a secluded corner, and no one will bother you.

"Hmm... to use the term they have in Intis, it's called self-service.

"Come on. I'll show you how it works."

Miles raised a hand to acknowledge several fellow writers who greeted him as he entered. Rather loyally, he didn't abandon Lorry, instead leading him toward the food.

After choosing their food, the two selected a relatively secluded seating area.

"That's it?"

Lorry scooped a large spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. Still finding this rather strange, he began pondering a profoundly philosophical question.

Why did I come here?

Though the free food, red wine, and ice cream are pretty tempting...

Miles picked up a napkin and wiped the grease from his mouth, then lifted his wineglass and gulped down several great mouthfuls. He shot Lorry an irritated glance.

"Of course not! We didn't come here just to freeload on food and drinks.

"A literary salon... do you understand?"

All right, all right. A full stomach certainly makes a man sound confident... Expressionless, Lorry lowered his head and glanced at the plate piled high with bones in front of Miles.

Miles continued:

"The main point is, of course, to exchange ideas about writing.

"But you're new to the profession and don't know any of the other writers. I can't just bring you over, so you'll have to wait here for a while.

"I'll go talk to a few fellow writers and friends from publishing houses first, introduce you to them, then come back to get you."

With that, he stood up with his wineglass and looked toward the other seating areas.

Fors leaned lazily against the wine cabinet, holding her glass and savoring its contents.

Footsteps gradually drew closer.

Her pale blue eyes glanced back, taking in the figure of their host, Altair.

Altair was a tall, blond man. Smiling broadly, he raised his glass from a distance, then approached and asked, "How's today's wine?"

"Excellent. It's the best wine I've had this year." Fors smiled faintly and casually asked, "Where did you buy it?"

Altair laughed, then lowered his voice.

"This isn't a wine you can buy.

"It's made at Meager Manor outside the city from their own grapes. The estate belongs to Duke Negan, and the wine isn't for sale.

"It took me quite a bit of effort and a little luck to get some. If you like it, you can take a bottle home after the salon."

Fors shook her head slightly.

"I'd better not, then. I'm afraid I'd fall hopelessly in love with it."

"By the way, Altair." She paused, her pale blue eyes flicking toward a corner. "That's Miles, isn't it? I think I saw him when I got out of the carriage."

"The man sitting opposite him-

"Do you know him?"

As the host, Altair had greeted every guest at the entrance.

He followed Fors's gaze and smiled. "Oh, he's a new fellow writer. He hasn't been in Backlund long."

"But his work is quite famous. You've probably heard of it recently."

Faced with Fors's slightly puzzled look, Altair shrugged. "His name is Raven. Young Roselle is his work."

Sorry, I really haven't heard of it... I've been busy investigating Qilingus lately... As she thought this, Fors nodded with apparent realization. "So it's him."

Wait, Young Roselle?

I remember Miss Audrey has been collecting Emperor Roselle's notes lately... Recalling that generous young noblewoman, she suddenly had an idea.