Any other expression the servant may have worn before recognition sank in was missed by Kit. Had Blankka been delighted? Ashamed? Remorseful? It didn’t matter now because Kit knew exactly what she had done, and a seething rage boiled up out of her soul as she imagined the consequences. There would be no way to undo what Blankka, someone who was meant to be her friend, her ally, a confident, had done.

“You conniving little bitch!” Kit shrieked, tearing her arm away from Galter and flying at Blankka, her fingers crooked as if her nails were talons.

“No, Princess! Please!” Blankka shouted, dropping to her knees and throwing up her...