Even though the woman showed potential for violence (for Salvia believed all adults capable of this, as Harlowe had proven) the girl did not budge. She remained still, legs stiffening at the subconscious threat. Fight, not flight, had been imbedded into her psyche—her father was strong after all, and she trusted he would always protect her. His strength had become her own. Yet the woman only demanded manners, which her parents had warned her of before. This lesson had been taught, but never enforced. Now she saw why it was useful, and stored this into her memory.
And oh, wonder of wonders, this would be not only a lesson but a secret. She all but wiggled with anticipation, pleased she would know something no one else would. Green eyes lost their tiger’s fury and turned wide and interested. How much she resembled the wildcat her mother kept. “I’ll keep it a secret, I promise!” She had kept the German a secret from all but her family—surprising herself when she found Larkspur, who spoke so poorly, was fluent in the sacred language. “I can wait till you’re done,” she added, eyes trailing to the rabbit pelt.
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