Tempest inclined her head, headed for the door. Before she reached it, Madame warned, “You will say nothing about this to anyone.”
“Of course not, Madame.”
Madame hesitated, as if she wanted to broach the gap between them, perhaps open the doors to friendship. She did not. “Go get ready for Selection,” was all she said, turning on one heel and reaching for her uniform.
Tempest headed for her room. There was the usual sick feeling in her stomach at the thought of Selection. Even through her joy, Kitten was never far from her mind, and she mourned the loss of her friend. Her lover.
Within the walls of her chambers, Tempest stripped off the shift. She decided that red would suit her mood tonight, a violent red of blood or deep wine. She applied her cosmetics with violence as well: dark, o
