Chapter 5

Sacred Mountain Lodge, Noordhoek Beach.

The new day dawned a little bleak, with a thick band of clouds rolling in from the sea. The usually brilliant turquoise of the water was replaced by a cold, lead-grey hue, the kind that only a typical South Atlantic cold front could bring. As I sipped my coffee, I watched the weather unfurl like a drama on the horizon. Kommetjie, to the south, soon disappeared under an impenetrable fog that swallowed up the village, the mountain, and the sea in one greedy gulp.

The mist rolled steadily northward, its ghostly tendrils creeping over the dunes and the southern stretch of Noordhoek Beach. It wouldn’t be long before the whole coastline was lost in the fog’s chilly embrace. I shivered and thought, Hope Fiona packed something warm.

The evening before had been a quiet one — or at least it started that way. I’d spent a good chunk of it rereading Drake’s letter, every word scrutinized like it held the secret to the universe. At the bottom of the letter was a sketch. Part of it I recognized instantly: Devil’s Peak, Table Mountain, and Lion’s Head, their familiar silhouettes etched against the Cape Town skyline. But the left side of the drawing stumped me completely, a riddle in pencil.

Fiona had retrieved her crash bag from the lounge at some point and disappeared into the second bedroom. A while later, the soft hiss of the shower filled the silence. When she reappeared, through the bedroom door, she wore an oversized nightshirt that skimmed down to just above her knees, her bare feet padding softly on the carpet. Her damp hair tumbled over her shoulders, curling slightly as it dried.

“Good night, Roy. Sleep well,” she said, her voice tinged with exhaustion. She yawned and gave me a sleepy smile before retreating into her room and shutting the door.

The image stuck with me. It was a little too vivid, if I’m honest. Concentration? Out the window. I gave up and went to bed myself, though sleep came slowly.

Now, standing outside in the crisp morning air with a fresh cup of coffee warming my hands, I stared out at the grey sea, pondering my next move. Anderson wouldn’t take my rebuke lightly, that much was certain. He was bound to make a move soon, and I had a hunch it would involve Fiona. His veiled threats about him coming to Cape Town still echoed in my mind.

Keeping her out of sight and out of harm’s way was top priority. I drained the last of my coffee, set the mug in the sink, and decided I’d deal with the dishes later.

Fiona emerged a few minutes later, dressed in snug jeans, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, and running shoes. Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, a stark contrast to the wild cascade of the night before.

“Morning, Fee. Sleep well?” I greeted her with a smile.

“Morning, Roy.” She returned the smile easily. “Yeah, once I finally fell asleep, I was out like a light. You?”

“Out for the count,” I lied, trying not to think about how I’d been replaying her goodnight in my head like some sort of lovesick teenager.

“Coffee? Or coffee and breakfast?” I asked, heading toward the kitchen.

“Coffee first,” she replied, then hesitated. “But what’s the plan for breakfast? Your fridge looks like it hasn’t seen food in weeks.”

“Oh, I’ve got us covered,” I said with mock confidence. “We’re heading up to the main house for a proper sit-down breakfast.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The main house? They’re going to kick me out before I even set foot in the door.”

“No, they won’t. Trust me.”

“Where have I heard that before? ‘Trust me,’ just before the big bad wolf ate Grandma...” She giggled, a light sound that momentarily chased away the tension in my chest.

“Come on,” I said, motioning toward the door. “Let’s go get some brekkie before the fog decides to join us indoors.”

We walked into the lodge’s dining room just as Eleanor, the owner and ever-cheerful host, emerged from the serving kitchen. She carried a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and golden-brown toast, delivering it to a guest tucked into the corner by the window. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of the hearty breakfast, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

“Good morning, Roy! I see you’ve brought a guest.” Eleanor’s warm smile lit up her face, as welcoming as ever.

“Hi, Ella,” I replied casually, as though these were all perfectly routine. “Yes, I need to talk to you about that.” I gestured to Fiona. “Meet Maggie, my assistant. She’ll be staying for a few days, so just add her to my tab.”

Fiona’s eyes widened so much I thought they might pop out of her head. She shot me a sharp, incredulous look but stayed quiet, her lips pressed together in a tight line. Instead, she gave Eleanor a polite smile and murmured a soft, “Good morning.”

“Will you be having the usual, Roy?” Eleanor asked, already turning toward the kitchen.

“Yes, thanks, Ella.” Then I turned to Fiona. “The usual is a full farmhouse breakfast. You in?”

“Oh, absolutely. Thank you. I’ll have one too,” she said, her tone light and pleasant, though I caught the slight tremor in her voice.

“And lucky for you, Mags,” I added, leaning in conspiratorially, “Ella here has real filter coffee — not that plastic stuff back at the cottage.”

“I beg your pardon!” Eleanor spun around, mock outrage flashing in her eyes. “Plastic stuff? That’s real, honest-to-goodness, 100% pure coffee!”

Fiona chuckled, her earlier tension momentarily eased. “Don’t worry, Ella. I’ll beat him for you later,” she whispered loud enough for both Eleanor and me to hear.

“Why, thank you, dear,” Eleanor quipped with a grin. “I’ll even provide the frying pan.”

“Gee, Ella,” I said with mock indignation. “And here I thought we were friends.”

Eleanor’s teasing smile faded as she set the plates down. “Speaking of friends...” she began, her tone suddenly serious. “Your editor called this morning. He said he’d like you to call him as soon as you can.”

“My editor?” I asked, a sinking feeling settling in my gut.

“Yes. I think he said his name was Allison or Anderson. I’m not sure now.”

The colour drained from Fiona’s face. Her pale complexion stood out starkly against the dark denim of her jacket.

“Two farmhouse breakfasts and two big mugs of your famous house blend filter coffee, Ella,” I said briskly, taking Fiona gently by the shoulders and steering her to an empty table near the fireplace.

Fiona’s body trembled as she sat down, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Her wide, frightened eyes darted around the room, as if Anderson might materialize from the shadows at any moment.

“He’s not here,” I said firmly, leaning across the table to hold her gaze. “So stop letting him rattle you.”

She shook her head, her voice a desperate whisper. “He could already be in Cape Town. He has a private jet.”

“If he left last night,” I said, keeping my tone calm and logical, “it’d take him two hours to fly here. Renting a car? Add another hour. And the morning traffic from the airport? That’s at least another two hours. He’s not here yet.”

She exhaled shakily, but her fear hadn’t abated.

“Now listen,” I said, softening my tone as Eleanor placed two steaming mugs of coffee in front of us. “You need to eat something. We’ll figure this out, but I can’t think straight on an empty stomach.”

Fiona picked up her coffee with trembling hands, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She looked so vulnerable at that moment, a stark contrast to the confident, quick-witted woman who’d joked with Eleanor only minutes earlier.

I hated seeing her like this, crushed under the weight of fear. But I had to stay composed, for both our sakes. Whatever Anderson’s next move was, he wouldn’t get to her. Not while I was around.

Eleanor served us her famous full farmhouse breakfast, a spread so generous it could have fed an entire search party. She piled all the trimmings onto the table — ketchup, chutney, Himalayan pink salt, little grinders of white and black pepper. Then came an assortment of miniature jam containers: strawberry, marmalade, and apricot. A side plate followed, stacked with golden cubes of farm-fresh butter that gleamed under the morning light streaming through the windows.

“If you need anything else, just shout!” she declared cheerfully before bustling off to greet two new guests arriving at the front desk.

“She runs this place alone?” Fiona asked, spreading marmalade over her toast.

“No, she’s got a staff of about seven, but she’s very hands-on,” I explained, watching as Eleanor efficiently directed her team and welcomed the newcomers with her trademark warmth.

“She looks well-organized,” Fiona noted, glancing after her.

“She is. Her husband handles maintenance, runs a shuttle service, and operates a little mini-tour business.”

“Speaking of travelling,” Fiona said, setting down her knife, “I need to get to Stellenbosch. They have a Drake collection in their library.”

“We can go after breakfast,” I replied, cutting into my bacon and egg with deliberate precision.

“Roy,” she began hesitantly, “am I keeping you from your original schedule?”

“Nope. My schedule changed. I smell a story, an adventure, and a treasure hunt,” I said with a grin, forking buttered toast topped with egg and bacon into my mouth. “Besides, you’ve contracted me, remember?”

Her expression grew conflicted. “I ... I can’t pay you, Roy...”

“No,” I replied, raising my mug of coffee in a mock toast, “but I do get the privilege of your excellent company.”

She laughed softly, but there was curiosity in her eyes. “Roy, sorry for asking, but ... you don’t sound like someone who just fell off a Christmas tree with a Standard Bank tied around your neck. Did you have any formal training for what you do?”

I put my coffee down and regarded her for a long moment, letting the question hang in the air. Finally, I said, “Does combat training in the Middle East, Afghanistan, Syria, and Libya count? If not, I also have a Master of Philosophy — an MPhil — in Media and Journalism. That shock you?”

Her fork, loaded with toast and egg, stopped midway to her mouth. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly. After a beat, she smiled. “No. Not at all. It actually explains a lot about you.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, smirking. “Such as?”

She leaned forward, resting her chin lightly on one hand. “Kind. Considerate. Gentlemanly. Funny. Helpful...” She hesitated, her gaze locking onto mine. “And dangerous.”

I chuckled. “And does the dangerous part scare you?”

She blushed, the pink creeping up her cheeks as she giggled. “No. It...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I teased, tilting my head. “You’ve got to finish that thought.”

She looked away, trying to compose herself, but her smile gave her away. “It doesn’t scare me. Let’s leave it at that.”

I leaned back in my chair, satisfied. “So, am I good enough to join you on your quest to find the artefact?”

“Yes,” she replied, turning back to meet my eyes. “Very much good enough.”

The rest of breakfast passed in easy banter, punctuated by laughter and the occasional playful jab. When we’d polished off our plates, I suggested a plan for the day.

“We’ll head to Stellenbosch, pick up the essentials, and if the weather clears, maybe even go horseback riding.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed with a smile, brushing the last crumbs from her lap.

As we left the dining room, Eleanor called out after us. “Don’t forget to stop by for that frying pan, Maggie!”

“No, I won’t!” Fiona replied giggling.

Then she winked at me.

Huh? What frying pan?

Oh. THAT frying pan! Wee-men!

From Noordhoek, we set off towards Ou Kaapse Weg, the winding mountain pass that never failed to impress with its panoramic views of the valley below. The sun cast a golden glow on the fynbos, which seemed to shimmer under the morning light. Over the crest, we descended into the Cape Town Southern Suburbs, taking the long way through the leafy neighbourhoods, and eventually merged onto the N2 National Road heading towards Stellenbosch and Paarl.

As we drove, I pointed out landmarks to Fiona. Some she recognized, and others she listened to my commentary with curiosity, occasionally asking a question or two.

When we passed the Mostert’s Mill in Mowbray, she suddenly perked up.
“Is that Mostert’s Mill?” she asked, leaning forward slightly for a better look.

“Yes,” I confirmed, glancing at her briefly before returning my eyes to the road.

“I thought it burned down in that fire that also destroyed the UCT library?”

“It did,” I said, “but it was restored by a group called the ‘Friends of Mostert’s Mill.’ They worked tirelessly, sourcing parts and materials from wherever they could find them. Some components had to be manufactured from scratch. It wasn’t easy, but they got it done. The mill’s working again, just like in the old days.”

“You don’t say!” she exclaimed, her tone tinged with admiration. “We must visit it.”

“Yes, Professor of Old Things...” I teased, earning a swift slap on my shoulder.

“Ouch!” I protested, feigning injury.

“Serves you right! Bully!”

“Now I’m a bully? What next?” I asked, mock indignation in my voice.

“Drive,” she said, trying to sound stern but failing to suppress her grin.

“Yes, Mistress Slave Driver.”

“ROY!”

Her exasperated tone set us both laughing, and the rest of the drive passed in a series of playful jabs and light-hearted banter. Soon, the verdant vineyards and oak-lined streets of Stellenbosch came into view, signalling our approach to the university.

Driving onto the campus of the University of Stellenbosch felt like entering another world. The stately old buildings, their whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, were surrounded by well-manicured lawns and ancient oak trees that provided dappled shade. Students strolled along the walkways, some with books tucked under their arms, others chatting animatedly in groups.

Fiona directed me toward the library, and I parked in a shaded spot nearby.

“Well, are you coming along?” she asked as she grabbed her bag and stepped out of the car.

“Oh, I thought you wanted to do this solo,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

She turned back to face me, her expression softening. “Roy, you might see something I might miss, so come along.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling as I locked the car and joined her.

We climbed the wide steps leading up to the library building. It was an imposing structure, blending classic and modern architectural elements, with large glass panels reflecting the vibrant green of the surrounding trees. A brass plaque near the entrance proclaimed it to be the “JS Gericke Library.”

Getting through security was straight forward for Fiona. She had her ID card for UP and her letter of accreditation from US. I had to use my press ID and Fiona introduced me as her assistant, “Miles.” I frowned at it, but Fiona smirked and the comment from the security girl made me turn away and walk a few paces off.

“I can also do with a Miles to help me out around here.” The security girl remarked.

Inside, the cool air provided a welcome reprieve from the warmth outside. The scent of books, polished wood, and faintly of coffee lingered in the air. Shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, housing tomes both old and new. The quiet hum of activity surrounded us: students typing on laptops, others flipping through pages, and the occasional rustle of papers being shuffled.

Fiona glanced around, her eyes wide with wonder. “This place is amazing,” she whispered, as if afraid to disturb the tranquillity.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” I replied, gesturing toward the soaring ceilings and the rows of books that seemed to stretch into infinity.

She nodded, then tugged my sleeve gently. “Come on, let’s find the Drake collection.”

We approached the front desk, where a librarian with silver-rimmed glasses and a kind smile greeted us. Fiona explained what she was looking for, and the librarian, efficient and polite, directed us to a section on the second floor.

As we climbed the spiral staircase, Fiona’s excitement was palpable. She moved with purpose, her eyes scanning the signs for the right section. I followed, half amused and half impressed by her determination.

“Here it is!” she said triumphantly, stopping in front of a row of shelves marked ’Historical Artefacts and Documents – Drake Collection.’

She immediately began browsing through the titles, her fingers skimming over the spines. I leaned against the end of the shelf, watching her work with a slight smile.

“Find anything yet, Professor of Old Things?” I teased, earning a brief glare over her shoulder.

“Not yet, Master Philosopher of Wordiness, but keep talking, and I’ll make you sort through these books.”

I raised my hands in mock surrender and chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

She turned back to the shelves, her focus unshakable, while I scanned the area for a comfortable chair. If this was going to take a while, I’d better find somewhere to sit.