"Well, Holmes," I shut down the computer and swiveled my chair in the direction of the detective, "It appears our fears were unnecessary. True we have come away with a few bruises and such, but none of us were seriously injured."

Holmes nodded, "And our fears of the readers coming with pitchforks and torches never became nothing more than an idea. This rookie author has most certainly done an excellent, if not unconventional, job."

I smiled, rising from my chair, "So to celebrate the author not killing us or putting us deliberately in harm's way, what do you say to a toast?"

"A wonderful idea," Holmes followed me to the wine cabinet but broke his stride as a peculiar beeping came from his coat pocket. Puzzled, Holmes extracted the source of the noise from his pocket to hold up one of those newfangled cellular phones. "What in the blazes…" he muttered. "Watson, is this yours?"

"No, Holmes." I stepped closer, "I've never seen it before, how do you suppose it got in your dressing gown pocket?"

The contraption was beeping insistently and after some trial and error, we succeeded in calming the device by opening the folder encrypted, "New message"

"What does it say, Holmes?" I asked, as I saw the detective's face go positively white. "Is it bad news?"

"She's not done with us yet," Holmes said, his expression unreadable.

"Not done? What on earth do you mean?"

"The message says," Holmes answered, trying to keep his voice level. "That the author is going to write four longer stories based off some of her smaller ones in her series. She wants her readers to review with a list of four of their favourites and whatever ones get the most votes, she will expound upon."

"Oh, dear." I said, feeling suddenly ill. "More harm may come to us yet."