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 arms to cover her head. “Forgive me!”
Kit would visit no mercy on the girl. She’d rip her to shreds in this very hallway. Even if her mother came out and ordered her to stop, Kit wouldn’t show any leniency for the woman who had cost her so much. A guttural cry echoed down the hallway as Kit launched herself at the weeping woman.
