Helen was sweet and kind and turned the other cheek just like Mrs. Vincent told me to do with the white boy. Helen died. Jane can see when adults are wrong and greedy and cruel, and she resents them for it. She has a temper. Her mouth doesn’t hurt from smiling.

She’s the one who gets to live and write the book.

• • •

Near sundown, when the shadows creep across the valley floor and the trees ring with the sound of nesting birds, I collect my dry uniform from the bush behind the native servants’ quarters, hang it on my side of the wardrobe, and slide Jane Eyre under my pillow. Jane’s gaunt face shadowed by a black bonnet, with a black ribbon tied under her chin, promises to share her next adventure with me when I get back. I hurry to the dining hall. If I arrive early, I’ll avoid the long walk past the groups of girls sitting together and the boys who throw food to get my attention.

I collect my plate and find a seat in the middle of the table. That way, the spaces on either side of me fill up and I disappear into the noise and the chatter. Lottie arrives late, with red cheeks and her hair sticking up. She disappeared straight after church, and by the wild look of her, she’s been out in the bush all day. I’ll bet money that she spent her free time searching for Darnell Parns in the fields and farms that surround the school. She worries about him, and, even though she tries to hide it, I’ve caught her staring down the length of road that leads to Keziah with a fierce concentration, as if willing Mr. Parns’s tractor to appear. It is strange. Darnell ran off on Tuesday at sunset and now it’s Sunday afternoon. His father should have brought him back to school by now.

Lightning strikes outside the tall windows, and the little girls jump. The big girls laugh to prove they aren’t afraid, but we all fear the lightning. It kills in a flash. Last year a bolt hit the man who owned the Skonkwane Stock and Feed Co., outside of Hlatikulu. He died. And the year before that, lightning hit three cows in the Ezulwini Valley, and they died. When lightning strikes the ground, it can spark fires that destroy villages and farms. We give lightning the respect that it deserves.

Lottie walks past me with her dinner plate and squeezes next to the Bartholomew twins at the far end of the table. The boys watch her pass and, infuriatingly, say nothing. She interests them, but they keep their mouths shut because she’s been known to clout rude boys who say rude things. Just ask Lazy-Eye Matthew.