Free Duende by E. E. Ottoman

Duende
E.E. Ottoman

    Aimé tossed the paper across the room, watching the pages flutter down against the far wall. Really, if he read one more article talking about his 'dark eyes', 'olive complexion', or how his voice was 'as girlish as his figure', he would personally hunt down the journalist responsible. There would be hell to pay.
    They could write anything: about how he was the only castrato to be invited to sing at the Royal Opera House, or how he had played roles in more performances this season than any other single performer.
    But no, always they wrote about his appearance: how exotic he was, how feminine.
    After another moment of sitting and scowling at the paper now on the floor, he stood and headed for the door that separated his sitting room from that of his flatmate.
    Sabers greeted him. The emperor gave a finely-engraved saber to those honored for particular bravery in battle or other military service to the crown. Collette boasted a full wall of them.
    "Collette," he called, and she stuck her head around the doorway that led to her study.
    "Yes?"
    Aimé frowned again, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you were taking me to the ballet? Why aren't you dressed?"
    "I'm sorry." Collette rubbed at the long scar that crossed the bridge of her nose. "I have to appear in court tomorrow with Jacqualine D'Arras, representing the defendant, and God only knows what she will do. Go for the throat, most likely. Could we do it another time?"
    Ordinarily Aimé understood that in Collette's world, work and duty to the Crown always came first, but now he just frowned harder. "You promised."
    Collette shrugged, turning back to her paper-strewn desk and shuffling through some of the sheaves. "You can admire Badri Mukherjee's groin without me."
    "I admire all of him," Aimé said, with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances, "and you promised you would go with me, because it is my birthday."
    Judging by her guilty expression, he guessed she'd forgotten that small detail.
    "All right." She ran her fingers across her scalp, where her hair was cropped so short that it made her look almost bald. "When does the ballet start?"
    "Eight o'clock, I believe. But we should be ready to leave much earlier if we want to dine out." Aimé gave her another pointed look.
    "Very well, I'll get ready." Collette disappeared back into her room again, and Aimé headed for his own.
    *~*~*
    The steps to the Royal Theatre were crowded by the time Aimé and Collette got there, now properly wined and dined for the evening.
    Aimé was in a shimmering, silk, dark silver jacket and waistcoat with a striking black shirt to match his breeches. The silver enhanced his dark hair and eyes, and made him stand out in the sea of pastels. The close cut of the jacket showed off the rounded curves of his hips and backside, but Aimé liked that, liked the way it made people take notice. Let them look: his figure marked him as a castrato, and he had only ever been proud of that. Tonight, unlike his other trips to the ballet, Aimé carried a moderately-sized bouquet of wild roses.
    Beside him, Collette was all long, elegant lines in her own jacket and breeches, closely tailored to show off the wide width of her shoulders and her long legs.
    She took his arm as they descended from their carriage and moved up the steps. His dark brown hand seemed tiny and pale against her much darker, larger one. She was a good five inches taller than he was, and she held her head high.
    They swept through the crowd of nobility, turning heads as they went. Aimé heard whispers of both their names and ignored them. He procured them wine once in the building, and brought her a glass.
    "Commander."
    She took it with a slight nod of her head. "Shall we go up to your box?"
    He nodded and followed her.
    Aimé did not often have time to watch ballet and plays, but he loved both, so he maintained a season pass just the same. Their box seats allowed for a spectacular view