It would still be another two summers before Salvia could ride the colt. She had been warned by her father that this would be the case, but she had insisted on the black horse before he had been born. Now she loved him, identifying with the animal in a more welcoming way than her father did. Larkspur had no romanticism in him for animals, and named none of his animals. Salvia could separate the idea of slaves and normal people, and so she found that naming animals was much the same. They were alike, she had reasoned, though a horse did not have the ability to talk back. A horse couldn’t humiliate her the way the man-slave had.
The voice distracted her, and she looked over to see the woman she called aunt’s arrival. Green eyes gleamed with pride for the colt, who remained still despite his nervousness about the strange woman. Salvia continued to pet his face, rubbing the soft spot under his forelock with one large hand. “Tía buena tarde,” she greeted, dipping her head to rub her muzzle against Tlanti’s.
.saltext b {font-weight:bold; color:#000000; letter-spacing:1px; }
.saltext .ooc { font-style:italic; padding:0px; font-family:verdana, sans-serif; font-face:italic; font-size:11px; text-align:center;}
.saltext p {text-indent:25px; padding:1px 1px; margin:0px;}
.saltext {margin:0px auto; width:450px; background-color:none; background-image:url(); background-position:top right; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:none; padding: 10px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#111111; line-height:14px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;}
.saltext .separator{width:400px; border-bottom:1px dotted #000000; margin:0 auto 5px auto;}
</style>[/html]