Daughter of the Sacred Mountain — Mozelle Richardson

With a not-too-subtle grip on my elbow, he guided me into the garden, then he stopped. We stood facing each other, his hand holding my arm. “Lucienne du Maury, I know why you are here and it's not to put down root. I have hired a boy from the lodge to drive you to Themba tonight. Here is a ticket on tomorrow's flight to New York.” He pulled an airline envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. I looked at it stupidly. “Now go home,” he said, “home to Chicago before you get hurt.”