Connors slunk back into his seat, his face burning with embarrassment and irritation. "I was only making a casual remark," he muttered stiffly. "I never said that the fairy tale couldn’t be considered a literary art."

  The elder ignored him completely and turned to Hopdo instead. "I believe you still have something to add, Mr. Hopdo."

  "Yes." Hopdo nodded. "In fact, I was the one who initiated this meeting. My purpose is to propose a brilliant newcomer for membership—namely, the creator of those fairy tales, the author of Glenn’s Fairy Tales, Mr. Glenn."

  Whispers immediately rippled through the room. After Connors’s earlier humiliation, no one dared raise objections.

  Hopdo paused briefly, then continued, "I visited him personally a few days ago. He is a very young man, yet the aura of artistry around him is no weaker than any of ours. The more we spoke, the more convinced I became. I firmly believe he should be part of our circle—to bring even finer works into this world."

  "We’ve all read his fairy tales," a mustached middle-aged man said after exchanging looks with several others. "At first they seem filled only with childlike innocence. But reread them and new depths appear. Still... Hopdo, you’re a painter. Why do you hold this writer in such reverence? It would make more sense if Serrati felt this way."

  Hopdo had clearly anticipated the question. He answered without hesitation: "You all know I haven’t created a satisfying work in years. But those whimsical stories ignited something in me. The painting The Farm Beneath the Mountain, which received such high praise at the exhibition, was created after I read those tales."

  Understanding dawned on everyone in the room.

  "A good story can inspire an artist," the mustached man agreed. "I heard Maestro Dangome’s latest compositions were also born after he read that fairy tale collection."

  Dangome, a founding member of the club and peer to the elder at the high seat, had not attended any events in a long time.

  "I trust no one here still thinks Mr. Glenn unqualified to join us?" Hopdo asked, voice strong.

  Everyone nodded—even Connors, though who could say whether he meant it.

  The meeting continued with discussions of recent artistic works. When the scheduled time ended, the members rose unhurriedly, leaving in twos and threes.

  As Hopdo stepped out the door, Serrati called after him, suddenly warm and eager, pressing him for details about Glenn. In truth, if he hadn’t been absorbed in rereading the fairy tales over and over, Serrati would have been the first to seek Glenn out. No one had been more inspired than he—and Connors’s ignorance earlier had nearly sent the hot-tempered writer into a frenzy.

  The two men chatted with unexpected ease, their rapport deepening suddenly.

  When everyone but the elder had left, a narrow door at the back of the chamber opened. A woman in an elegantly ornate gown stepped out, her figure graceful, her presence luminous.

  The elder rose at once and bowed. "Your Highness, Third Princess."

  She lifted a hand in a soft gesture. "There’s no need for ceremony. I’ve troubled you this time by listening in secretly."

  "It is no trouble at all," the elder said respectfully. "With your noble status, even if you sat at the table, none would dare object."

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  "That would break protocol," she said gently. "My mother entrusted this club to me. I don’t wish to disturb its atmosphere."

  The club had been founded by the Queen of the Kingdom of Zehn—renowned in her youth as the most gifted dancer and musician of her era.

  "You are much like her," the elder said with a kindly smile. "The Queen would be proud of you."

  The Princess walked to the long table, her fingers sweeping lightly over its time-worn edges. "I still remember when Mother brought me here as a child. You were all presenting your works... It was a breathtaking baptism of art. It left a deep, deep impression."

  "But surely their quarrel earlier must have disappointed Your Highness," the elder said ruefully.

  The Princess let out a soft laugh. "Such disputes are nothing. The ministers argue far more fiercely in private meetings. This was practically mild."

  "You’ve said something you shouldn’t have, Your Highness," the elder chided gently, used to her candid trust.

  The Princess stuck out her tongue playfully.

  "You came because you were intrigued by the fairy tales, didn’t you, Your Highness? You wish to meet the author?"

  After a brief silence, the elder asked abruptly.

  "Yes." She admitted openly. "It’s a pity... If I had been able to read these stories as a child, it would have been such happiness. Just imagining that kind of childhood feels wonderful."

  "I can tell you truly love the work," the elder said. "Let us hope the author does not disappoint you."

  ...

  The deer-drawn carriage moved into a street lined with iron railings on both sides. Glenn could see the signs ahead.

  Hopdo had said he lived in the western district—No. 17, Antes Street. Glenn checked each house number one by one.

  At last he found it.

  He brought the carriage to a halt beside the fence, stepped into the yard, and rang the bell.

  Light footsteps approached. The door cracked open.

  A boy of eight or nine peered out, one hand gripping the handle above his head, the other bracing the door. "Who are you looking for?" he asked timidly.

  "I’m here to see Mr. Hopdo. He visited me previously. Does he live here?" Glenn asked, bowing slightly.

  "Papa went out," the boy said.

  As Glenn considered what to ask next, a woman’s voice called from deeper inside:

  "Amy, who is it?"

  "I don’t know. He says Papa invited him, but I don’t recognize him!"

  More footsteps. A short-haired woman gently pulled the boy aside and opened the door wider.

  With a courteous smile, she asked, "May I ask—are you Mr. Glenn?"

  Glenn returned the polite smile and nodded. "That’s me. Madam, do you know where Mr. Hopdo has gone? When will he return?"

  "He said he had a meeting today and would be back soon. Before leaving, he specifically told me to watch for a guest named Glenn. I thought the name sounded familiar, so I asked him whether it was the author of the fairy tales—and he said yes! I could hardly believe it, and now here you are. You have no idea how much my son and I adore your stories! Oh! Forgive me—please, come in. Hopdo should be home very soon."

  With warm enthusiasm, she led Glenn inside.