Everything progressed as if guided by divine hands.
The shopkeeper was so overwhelmed with excitement he nearly fainted. Clutching the manuscript tightly to his chest, he shooed away the customers, locked the shop door, and led Elina forward. As they walked, he reminded her, "Mr. Herman is at the Simond Café next to Vichy Street every afternoon."
Vichy Street was adjacent to Holywell, or more precisely, the two streets formed the blades of a pair of scissors, meeting at a modest little church. Vichy Street still retained some curious old wooden doors and gabled houses—especially on the south side. These houses were picturesque, but the street's narrow entrance made access difficult, requiring travel by foot.
Much like Holywell Street, in recent years this alley had gained notoriety for selling indecent books and illustrations.
In addition to bookstores, the street also housed several inns and two law colleges. This astonished Elina and made her realize that publishing risqué literature wasn't illegal—even salacious novels could be sold right under the noses of law students.
"Watch your wallet, sir," the shopkeeper warned. "There are plenty of pickpockets around here."
Elina nodded and paid extra attention to her purse—after all, she still needed money for her carriage ride home.
When they arrived at the Simond Café, they saw a row of tables set up outside, perhaps due to limited space inside. Men in tall top hats sipped coffee while engaging in lively discussions. The shopkeeper walked straight to the counter and bought two cups of coffee. Elina quickly stepped forward to pay—each cup cost only a penny, delightfully cheap.
After purchasing the coffee, they entered the café. The air was filled with the rich aroma of roasted beans. Oil paintings adorned the walls, and bookshelves next to the counter displayed the latest magazines and newspapers. People casually picked up publications to read, apparently without needing to pay.
As had been said before, cafés in Luenton served purposes beyond just coffee—they were like the predecessors of clubs, each with its own theme. The Manse Café near Charing Cross was a hub for stockbrokers, Scots frequented the Giles Café, and people not only drank coffee, but also played card games, debated social issues, and even received or sent mail.
Simond Café seemed to serve a similar function, though its exact theme and clientele remained unclear.
"Mr. Herman," the shopkeeper scanned the café, quickly spotting his target. He pushed his way toward a long table—it was rather cramped and crowded—and called out. A middle-aged man looked up.
"Oh, it's you," Mr. Herman said with a chuckle. He stood up, holding a manuscript—clearly someone else's work. After all, if people knew Herman could be found here every afternoon, they would surely approach him directly with their manuscripts.
Still, being introduced by someone certainly had its advantages. Elina placed one hand on her chest, removed her hat with the other, and gave a slight curtsy. Herman doffed his hat in return and smiled at the shopkeeper, "Joseph, what brings you here today?"
Only then did Elina learn the shopkeeper's name.
Joseph handed over the manuscript with excitement. "This gentleman's submission is simply extraordinary—I couldn't wait to recommend it to you."
Others at the long table began eyeing the manuscript and Elina. Some looked intrigued, others mildly displeased at being interrupted. The sudden attention made Elina a little uneasy, but she maintained a confident smile.
"Allen, sir," Elina introduced herself under her pseudonym.
"Of course," Herman said as he took the manuscript. "But I do need to finish this one first," he added, shaking the one he was already reading. A man at the table visibly relaxed—most likely the author of that piece.
The manuscript was not thick, and Elina wasn't in a rush. As long as she returned to the club before dark, she had time. Joseph guided her to an empty seat nearby.
No one urged Herman. He read quietly, and Elina noticed at least four or five other manuscripts at his side. Clearly, being introduced by someone helped skip the line.
Others murmured among themselves, creating a pocket of hushed conversation distinct from the café's louder crowd. With little to do, Elina picked up an unattended newspaper on the table and began reading. She was midway through when she overheard someone at the next table talking about The Family Mystery.
"Yes, Mr. Wells' new work," a man said rather loudly. "I think it's even better than his previous ones."
"Indeed," another replied, flipping through a magazine. "The beginning feels similar to his past stories, but the anonymous letter—now that's intriguing. It claims the protagonist isn't the real heir but an impostor. Makes you wonder what'll happen next."
"But didn't he say the inspiration came from a women's novel called Helen?" a third voice chimed in. "Have any of you read that?"
At the mention of her own work, Elina sat up straighter, her ears perking with interest.
"Who knows? I never pay attention to women's fiction," came the consensus among the men. "Probably published in some ladies' magazine."
They quickly moved on, leaving Elina slightly disappointed.
By now, Herman had finished the manuscript and handed it back to the relieved man. "Young man, I must say, it's a good story. But it doesn't quite fit my printing house."
The man asked, "Is it not good enough?"
"On the contrary," Herman said kindly. "But I think your story's twists and turns suit an adventure tale more. Perhaps Cassell's Magazine would be a better fit."
He returned the manuscript and opened Elina's. The rejected writer, unwilling to give up, stayed behind to see what kind of submission did meet Herman's standards.
Herman read with calm concentration. Compared to Joseph, he was more measured and thoughtful. Though his eyes widened at one point, he quickly composed himself, hiding any emotional reaction from the onlookers. Others grew curious—what could possibly provoke such a response?
Joseph guessed Herman had reached the part where the heroine, a married woman, becomes entangled with a nobleman drugged against his will and must save him. As for what came next, Joseph hadn't read it himself—he hadn't dared to in public. That kind of story was best read alone at night.
After reading the first page carefully, Herman skimmed the next few, then closed the manuscript. The observers assumed rejection was imminent—he hadn't even finished it. But then, Herman shocked everyone.
He stood up, extended his hand to Elina, and exclaimed, "This is an outstanding piece of work—absolutely brilliant! This is exactly what I've been looking for. Please, let's collaborate."
Everyone's jaws dropped—except Joseph, who lifted his chin proudly, reveling in his eye for talent.
The rejected man fidgeted uncomfortably. The contrast was simply too stark. "But Mr. Herman, you didn't even finish his manuscript."
"I only needed the first page to know it's exceptional," Herman said, shaking Elina's hand warmly.
The others whispered among themselves. The rejected writer pursed his lips and said, "May I have the honor of reading this exceptional manuscript myself? I'd like to see how far off I was."
Herman hesitated. He didn't want to let anyone else read it—not before Elina formally agreed to publish it with him.
"I would be honored to work with you, Mr. Herman," Elina quickly said. After all, he was a prominent publisher on Holywell Street.
Herman beamed. "I believe we'll have a wonderful collaboration."
He then asked for Elina's permission, pulled out the first page, and handed it to the man. "I think just this page is enough to demonstrate its excellence."
The man eagerly took it and began reading. Almost immediately, his face turned bright red. "This… this is…"
"Yes, yes," Herman chuckled. "I was just as surprised. Who could've imagined such a genius would come up with something so bold?"
Clearly, the man wasn't amazed by the creativity—he likely wanted to say "indecent" or "shameless."
He hurriedly finished the page, barely reading the lower half, and returned it, face still flushed. "I can see why you praised it. But it has no logic, no structure. Some plot points could be expanded, but they're glossed over. The characters are… full of clichés. Though I admit, they do have a certain… charm? Power? Apart from those descriptions… I find it hard to see what's so good about it."
"Young man," Herman said with a look of amused wisdom, "everything you call a flaw—I consider a strength. Tell me, when you read that page, what was your first reaction?"
The man glanced down awkwardly at his lap, even more embarrassed.
"Now imagine that same page, but with more logic, deeper plot, richer characters—would you still feel the same way?" Herman laughed. "You young men are full of energy. But for us middle-aged folk, everything's fading with time. What we want is a piece just like this—illogical, plotless, yet exactly what we need."
Others craned their necks to see, but Herman waved to Elina and led her to a quieter corner to discuss the partnership.
Elina admitted the manuscript was only half complete—she still had more to write. She also had some drawing skills and was confident she could create matching illustrations. This "big promise" made Herman's eyes shine. He immediately made generous concessions.
Typically, book royalties were 50%–60% of net profit for the author. Herman offered 65%, paid annually—a generous deal. All he asked in return was priority on Elina's future works, including the illustrated book she had so confidently mentioned.
After reviewing the contract and confirming everything was in order, Elina signed using her pseudonym. As she didn't yet have a bank account, she requested payment via check mailed to her home.
By the time everything was settled, it was nearly dusk. She had no time to wander and quickly hailed a carriage home.
The sunset painted the streets of Luenton with the day's final burst of color. Lamplighters climbed their ladders in silence, lighting one streetlamp after another. As the carriage wheels rhythmically clattered over the cobblestones, they finally turned the corner toward the familiar street.
Elina was startled to find the club's main door wide open. The two respectful footmen who usually stood outside were gone, and a group of men in black suits gathered at the entrance.
Her heart began to pound. She forced herself to stay calm and not jump to conclusions.
The man at the front turned around—tall, elegant, with wavy black hair and refined features. His dark eyes swept over her, and Elina instinctively held her breath.
Something had definitely happened.
She clenched her fists but tried to appear indifferent, looking away casually.
Fortunately, to avoid suspicion, she had given the coachman an address on the street next to the club. The carriage did not stop, rolling on steadily past the building she had called home for several months.