Emilio put down his fork in great seriousness. "Maybe some day my big brother will be saint of the animals, like Saint Francis of Assisi," he said proudly. "Then, Babbo, you will not laugh."
Giorgio's eyes glanced up from his plate and found the Palio horse he had made, standing big-chested on a shelf. He saw that the spennacchiera had fallen off, and he got up to press it back in place.
The mother watched him cross the room. "There are many ways," she said softly, "for a boy to bring honor to Monticello."
Her eyes and Giorgio's met and held for a brief instant.
It was late in November when the farm work lessened and the fun began. Hard by the village of Monticello were horse-rearing farms, and often in the afternoons the older boys who helped in the barns challenged Giorgio to a race. He was quick to accept each time, but he seldom rode the same horse twice. "Never do I want to love one so much," he explained to his father, "the way it was with Bianca, the blind one."
Always he rode bareback, no matter how rough the horse's gaits, and always he used only his left hand on the reins. Some of the horses in the Palio, he had heard, were no better bred than those his father bought and sold. And if they had to be ridden bareback, with the right hand free for the nerbo, he must practice now.
The other boys were older, taller, and they rode by gripping hard with their legs. But Giorgio had to work for balance, leaning always with his mount, thinking with him, flying together like one streamer in the wind.