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.
