Salvia was an interesting combination of her parents; she admired both usefulness and beauty. This was what drew her to horses (at least the pretty ones) and drove her to be like the cat her mother owned. One day she hoped to own one herself, but if not, she would settle for becoming more like the beast. Within her lived a tiger; the mushrooms had set it lose once, earning her the pink scar across her nose. Sometimes at night, she dreamed of that fight. Sometimes she dreamed she killed her sister, and woke without regret.
Bright eyes widened slightly at the question about her father. Like most children, Salvia was incredibly aware of her surroundings and knew that her not-aunt and father were hardly friendly. She sat up and brushed her hair away from her face, letting her hand fall to toy with the arrow-head necklace her father had given her. “Estaba aquí antes,” she answered. The colt snorted and trotted off, a jerky thing that hardly looked graceful with his out-of-balance body. In a year or two, he would be magnificent. “Creo que fue la caza.”
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