Her hands shook as she opened the scriber and pushed a button to scroll to the message, which was brief:
Miss O’Shea, pursuant to your recent interview with Signore Giancarlo, the International Shifter Rights Organization is pleased to offer you the position of Spokeswoman. We look forward to further discussion. Signore Giancarlo will arrive in London next week and shall contact you then. Congratulations! Please respond to acknowledge receipt of message . . .
She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. She had interviewed for the Spokeswoman position, hoping so much to be hired that she’d hardly allowed herself to think about it. Were it not for the night’s events, she’d probably have been sitting at home, staring at the device, willing it to ding.
I did it. I did it! Her eyes filmed over, and she quickly blinked back tears she refused to shed in the presence of That Man. That she was receiving the most glorious news of her life whilst riding in a carriage with Detective-Inspector Reed on her way to a jail cell was a cruel twist of fate, but she refused to allow the moment to be tarnished.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She looked up at him, searching for signs of mockery. He did not look pleased, or even friendly, but neither did he seem flippant. The tone seemed genuine enough.
“Nothing is wrong.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve received good news.”
The silence stretched between them. He was not about to ask for details, and she was not about to offer them. Her problem, however, was that she was bursting with excitement, fairly bouncing in her seat with it. After a day of despair and worry about the Committee and Bryce Randolph’s nefarious intentions, the message was like receiving first prize. Now that she had even more of a voice, she could bring shifter injustices immediately to the international body as a colleague and peer.
“I interviewed for a position with the ISRO.”
He raised a brow, which always smacked of condescension to her, and she hated it. “And you have been hired for it?”
She nodded and lifted her chin. “Spokeswoman.”
The silence stretched again. He slowly nodded. “Apropos.”
She cleared her throat. “Quite. This means I shall resign as the London chapter president and turn over my duties to Veronica Stein. She will be much less . . . troublesome for you, I imagine.”
He didn’t agree or disagree. His expression turned speculative, and it raised her hackles.
“What?” she demanded.
“You’ve amassed your share of enemies. You should take precautions; I imagine the list will grow.”
“You—chief among them.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand along his head. “I am not your enemy, Miss O’Shea.”
She disagreed, but for the sake of her improved mood, she said nothing.
“At any rate, congratulations.” He didn’t smile but nodded once and then looked out the window again. “With any luck, this will be the last time I arrest you.”
A million snappy replies sprang to her lips, but she held them back, with effort. She looked down again at the message and smiled. Her life was about to change; she felt it to her core.
Ten months later
Emme stood in the breakfast room of her family’s lovely London townhome in Charrington Square and stared at two pieces of mail. Both letters referenced the upcoming multinational event—the “Summit for Shifter Relations and Rights”—in Edinburgh, Scotland, and both messages had caused her heart to pound, but for vastly different reasons. The energy she could feel emanating from them was a frenetic mix of positive and negative, and it caught her by surprise. She’d not felt the intense waves unsolicited for a very long time, and rarely from inanimate objects. She mentally titled the two messages “Good Letter” and “Bad Letter.”
“Emme?” Her mother, Hester, glanced over her shoulder as she dished up a plate from the side buffet. “Will you please come to the shop today? Summit week looms large on the horizon, and if you persist in avoiding fittings, the dresses will not be ready in time.”
The letters trembled in Emme’s hand, and she clasped the papers tightly to still them. She swallowed, and when spots appeared before her eyes, she realized she was holding her breath. “I . . . of course. I’ve a meeting with Isla and shall stop by the boutique before my luncheon with Signore Giancarlo . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she made a concerted effort to draw in a measured breath and exhale slowly.
Lady O’Shea’s attention snapped to her. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Nothing . . . well, good news!” Emme managed a smile and placed the Good Letter atop the other. “I’ve been awarded the final time segment to speak before the international body votes on the proposed accord at the end of Summit week.”
Mrs. O’Shea’s mouth dropped open. “Emmeline! Dearest, that is wonderful news! Your comments will be the last they hear before they decide whether or not to sign. Your gift for emotional appeal will surely bring about good results.”
Her mother rushed to hug her with one arm, her other hand balancing a plate of eggs and croissants. “I am so proud.” Her eyes filmed over, and Emme felt a surge of warmth. Focused attention from her mother was a rarity.
“Thank you, Mama. I confess, I am relieved. I—”
“And the other letter?” Hester grinned and released Emme’s shoulders as she grabbed the paper from beneath the Good Letter. “Another invitation to an important event? Your schedule has been so full with meetings and dinners lately that I can hardly remember them all!”
“Mama, wait, I’m certain it’s—”
Hester’s eyes scanned the Bad Letter, and they widened as she gasped a horrified breath. Her plate hit the ground and bounced, scattering food across the thick Persian rug. She put her hand to her midsection and swayed.
“Mama!” Emme grabbed Hester, whose face was dangerously
