Lottie’s cheeks flush at the poke, but Mother is calm. She tilts her head to consider and then says, “Three bags each of the peppermint twists, the chocolate éclairs, and the hard toffee, and five bags of the licorice, if you please.”

More than enough to add an extra note of sweetness to the end of dinnertime. Mother has come to Keziah armed with charm and money. She’s got what Father gives her and the “walking-around cash” that she earns working two days a week at Bella’s Beauty Salon for All Types. Her goal: to lift the bad-luck curse that clings to Lottie and me. Her weapon: four kinds of sweets. An unheard-of luxury on our boarding school menu.

Ophelia hurries to the counter to collect the paper bags for the candy, and Mother whispers, “I remember this shop being huge and filled with treasure that I couldn’t touch, let alone buy. Now see it.”

Hebron is nothing compared to the hypermarket in Manzini, and Mother is delighted. She left this far end of Swaziland a poor girl with holes in her shoes, and she’s returned with money in her pockets and white boots imported from London. This homecoming is a sweet victory, even though the memories of growing up here make Mother turn her face and hide.

Ophelia scoops and weighs the right amounts and drops the packets into a cotton sack that’s roughly the same size as the one that Lottie brought her comb, her two pairs of underwear, her one sweater and one checked dress to school in.

Mother pays, and opens the sack to release a delicious cloud of sugar. “Take one each for the walk back, girls.”

Old Adele reaches for a licorice, not wanting to appear greedy. New Adele stops and takes a chocolate éclair from the paper bag instead. Being good for the sake of appearances is the same as telling a lie. Lottie’s straight talk and actions taught me that, and I really do prefer éclairs. Lottie scoops out a peppermint twist and throws me a half smile that says, And you wanted to stay behind for Scripture class!

I laugh at my foolishness. Scripture class, of all things! It’s barely a subject, and I already have the most verses memorized of anyone. We walk to the shop exit, happy with our daring escape from school. Mother, who’s used to talking to white men, will make excuses to Mr. Vincent, and we’ll be forgiven.

Hebron’s front door opens, and a man walks in with the light at his back. He’s an outline, a silhouette with sloped shoulders and slack arms hanging loose by his sides, but I know who it is straightaway: Bosman. His sons stand to either side of him and block the exit, and I grip the handle of Mother’s overnight case till the plastic bites into my fingers. Bosman said he’d remember Lottie and me. He promised.

“Mr. Bosman.” Ophelia chirps false cheer from behind the counter. “How can I help you today?”