Echoes of the Forgotten

After all that had transpired in his life, William had left London once more, retreating to the heart of Africa to live out what he had suspected to be the remaining years of his life in quiet solitude. There, amidst the vast landscapes and untamed wilderness of the Dark Continent, he shed the constraints of the English aristocracy. The hustle of English cities and the damp chill of its climate had long since become unbearable, and the endless cycle of globe-trotting was insufferable. Africa, with its endless horizons and wild beauty, became his sanctuary. A place to escape from the ghosts of the past, to become a man who had more in common with the earth beneath his boots than the society he had left behind.

Yet, even in his isolation, there were occasional calls… urgent requests from the Queen, a whisper of duty that could not be ignored. The Empire had need of him, and the weight of history called him back to serve, though the world had no idea where he had truly gone.

And after two years living in the village of Iringa, nestled in the shadow of the Ngorongoro highlands of Tanzania, he was found once again. What few knew, however, was that Africa had claimed William once before. A near-fatal brush with death had taken him far beyond the reach of civilization, leaving only whispers of his fate. But thanks to an old witchdoctor and the whispers of ancient magic, Africa would never lose him again.



Found by the most unlikely of any businessman in London, Lord James Hawthorne, of Hawthorne & Son Construction Company, had found the box during the last surveys of deteriorated building… a box that held something unlike anything anyone had ever seen. The ancient box that held the manuscript, was unmarked, with no indication of its origin. The only clue was a note… written in English by a scrawling, barely legible hand… that simply read:


And the words faded to nothing else but scribble.

Unbeknownst… inside, wrapped in layers of crumbling cloth, the manuscript sat hidden, its edges frayed and fragile, its parchment bearing the weight of centuries. The once-pristine pages had yellowed and curled at the edges, stained with what appeared to be the remnants of time itself. Faint traces of what could only be ancient ink decorated the surface, the text written in a language long abandoned by history.

The manuscript was thick… more than two hundred pages… yet its weight was not merely physical. Each page seemed to carry the weight of the ages, as though it had been touched by generations of hands, each leaving a silent imprint upon it. The first thing that struck anyone who dared to look closely was an intricate map embedded within the pages, drawn with an astonishing degree of detail. The map depicted a vast and untamed land, its contours strange and unfamiliar, leading into the heart of Africa… near the Ngorongoro highlands… where few had ventured and fewer still had returned from.

When the cloth would be peeled away and the manuscript laid out on a clean table, the faded red seals on the spine of the book would become visible… an enigmatic symbol… a series of interlocking shapes that seemed to dance together, as though they held some arcane significance, their meaning lost to time. The seals were old, perhaps older than the manuscript itself, and while they were beautifully crafted, they seemed to hold a dangerous allure.

Inside, the text would be written in a fluid script that spoke of places forgotten by history… ruins lost to time, sacred cities swallowed by the earth, and legends of a civilization that had once thrived and then disappeared, leaving no trace behind but the whisper of its name in ancient stories. One word in particular repeated throughout the manuscript… "Bantahla" …and though its meaning remained elusive, it appeared as if the very foundation of the manuscript revolved around it. Bantahla was not a place, it seemed, but a concept… a lost people, a philosophy, a civilization of mystery and deep wisdom.

The pages would not hold only words, but illustrations… strange, delicate sketches of monolithic structures and carvings on stone, of intricate rituals, of people dressed in elaborate garments, their faces serene yet hiding some unspoken sorrow. Some of the images were faint, barely more than shadows on the page, but others were startlingly clear, as though the very essence of the civilization had been captured in every stroke of the quill.

One page, near the center, bore a cryptic passage that appeared to be in a language that could not easily be translated. A cipher… its origins unknown, perhaps a form of encryption or symbolic language meant to guard secrets from the world. And yet, as the edges of the cipher glowed faintly in the sunlight, there was an undeniable sense that it had been intentionally designed to remain hidden, a puzzle that demanded the right mind to decipher.

How the manuscript had found its way to Minerva’s museum, no one could say. It was delivered by someone… the Hawthornes maybe? It was as if it had been waiting for someone to find it, someone who could understand its significance. Whoever had brought it to Londowntown had ensured its survival for generations, carefully preserved in a sealed box with the only clue being the note. Was it a gift? A warning? Or a key to unlocking an ancient secret long thought lost?

In the quiet of the museum’s archive room, the manuscript lay… waiting for the right person to unlock its mysteries, to bring its story into the light of the modern world. The words on the pages would soon call out to someone far more familiar with the land, far more familiar with the places it spoke of. And when they did, the manuscript’s true journey would begin.

It had been sheer accident… or perhaps something far more deliberate… that brought the artifact to light.

During the final survey of a derelict structure slated for demolition in East London, a foreman hired by Lord James Hawthorne, head of Hawthorne & Son Construction Company, uncovered the ancient box. Hidden behind a false wall in the crumbling cellar, the box was unlike anything cataloged or even rumored in antiquarian circles. It bore no markings, no inscription, nothing but the cold weight of something meant to be forgotten.

The foreman, taking control of the manuscript, careful not to harm the book, secured it, and summoned his employer to the worksite. What Lord Hawthorne didn't say… what he couldn’t say… was that the box had a history. Lord Hawthorne, already treading a delicate line with his company’s illicit dealings… artifacts unaccounted for, permits forged, shipments quietly redirected… knew possession of such an object would bring more than unwanted attention… and the possibility of a monetary reward. The unwanted attention would bring the kind of scrutiny that couldn’t be bribed away. And so, with more caution than he was known for, he sent it off. No courier’s record. No signature. Just a box, sealed in old wax, delivered in silence to the Westbrook Wing of the Museum of Antiquities. Because even a man neck-deep in secrets knew when he’d found something better left buried.

The journal had not been part of any official collection; it had been found in a forgotten crate in the museum’s lower vaults, mislabeled beneath a stack of Boer War correspondence. It was only Minerva Westbrook’s meticulous habit of cataloging everything by hand that had brought it to light again. But even she hadn’t expected what she would find within.

The journal was no ordinary account. This was no gentleman’s narrative of noble hunts or botanical sketches. These were off-the-record expeditions, shadow safaris, conducted by former scouts and naturalists who had once served under Major Sir William Cornwallis Harris in the 1830s and '40s… Long before the colonization-sanctioned safaris… this journal was of men who had remained in Africa long after the official British maps had ended, funded by private patrons and imperial interests too delicate to record.

The entries were coded, at times plainly redacted by the author himself. But beneath the crossings-out and cryptic shorthand, a pattern began to emerge… expeditions that strayed far beyond the mapped territories into regions even local tribes refused to enter.

Always north of the Ngorongoro Highlands. Always with a specific goal in mind… not ivory, nor gold, but knowledge. Artifacts. Symbols. Structures that defied explanation.

One entry near the back, nearly illegible from age, mentioned a name only whispered in speculative texts:


It became clear the journal had not been meant for public reading. One passage had been deliberately torn from the book, but a faint imprint remained, pressed into the page beneath it. Under forensic light, a few words could still be made out:


Now kept under lock and key in the Restricted Archives, the Cornwallis Ledger is displayed only under exceptional request… primarily to scholars of lost civilizations and Victorian esoterica. Few visitors ever see it. Fewer still understand its true value. But Minerva would… For what lay in that journal is not just a record of where men went, but of what followed them back.




According to a faded African safari journal similar to the Pembroke journal, displayed at the museum, said that a manuscript had been stolen by a treasure hunter some forty or fifty years ago, a mercenary of fortune who’d accompanied a safari into the lands north of the Ngorongoro Highlands. The expedition had numbered 150 men… guides, naturalists, armed escorts, porters… and not a single one returned. All were lost to the interior, consumed by the jungle or swallowed by something far older. All but one. The treasure hunter stumbled out weeks later, sunburnt and delirious, dragging behind him a bloodstained satchel and the manuscript inside. He never spoke of what happened. He simply vanished back into London, and so too did the artifact… until now.

But what she would discover, it would not be until Minerva’s third or fourth careful read-through… deep into the quiet hours of evening, long after the museum had locked its gates and the streetlamps outside cast watery halos through the frosted glass… that she found it. At first, she thought the final page of the manuscript was blank, a single leaf of untouched parchment, brittle and ghost-pale. But as she tilted it toward the light, something shifted. There, barely visible beneath the texture of the paper, ink began to bloom… faint, sepia-toned, as though drawn out by her presence alone. Not part of the manuscript's original hand, but scribbled hastily in a different script, different ink.

More modern. More human. A log… the penmanship was erratic, desperate, scrawled with the uneven hand of someone on the edge of madness. A confession. A warning. A legacy… etched into the last breath of the page:


It was a journal entry… an eyewitness account. A man named Horace L. Fenwick. A name anyone did not yet know, but one that already carried the gravity of the dead. He had written of the expedition, of the chamber, of the artifact now beneath her hands. Of Bantahla.

And it had been waiting. Hidden on the final page, like a whisper from the past reaching through parchment and time to find HER. Whatever this manuscript was… it was no longer just history. It was invitation.

Now who would be the world’s most authentic expert on the Dark Continent?

William’s fingers hovered over the page for a moment, the ink drying beneath his pen as he carefully considered the words he had written. The letter was deliberate, designed to deter Minerva's physical presence while still offering the knowledge she sought. He had not wanted this… the intrusion into his peace… but her persistence had brought the past hurtling back toward him, and he knew that he could not ignore it. Not now.

He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window toward the Ngorongoro Highlands, the distant volcanic peaks faintly visible in the early dusk. The land here was alive, he was alive, and it had a way of calling to those who had once belonged to it. He could feel the pull, the same pull that had drawn him back after his near-death. It was no wonder the manuscript had found its way to her. And though he would not welcome her here, William knew that, somehow, their paths would soon cross… if only through the cryptic, buried truths of the land itself.

For now, he had to trust that Minerva would accept his terms. The manuscripts, the journals… they were the keys to a door that had remained closed for far too long. And as much as he had hoped to remain in the shadows, it seemed the time had come for him to step back into the light, albeit from a distance. He had never abandoned Africa... and Africa had never abandoned him. He was alive.

The scent of old paper and beeswax polish lingered in the high-vaulted reading room, where the gaslights flickered dimly behind green-tinted glass. Shadows stretched long across the floor, curling beneath wooden tables stacked with parchment, sealed cases, and open volumes. The hour had passed respectable society by, but Minerva Westbrook had never cared much for such limitations. Not when the letter rested in her gloved hands.

She read it three times before moving. Each line bore weight. His tone was clipped, restrained—controlled in a way that told her more than his words themselves. William James Maubrey III had responded.

Her heartbeat had scarcely slowed since she broke the seal. The letter—rough parchment, folded with care and written in a deliberate, heavy hand—carried the scent of ash and sandalwood. A scent, she imagined, native to the hearth of a man who had not written a single frivolous word in more than a decade. It was as she’d hoped. As she’d feared. The spell had been cast. The circle was beginning to close.

Minerva set the letter gently upon the table, fingers lingering on the edges as if the paper might vanish should she let go.

It had been months—months of letters written in the long hours of the evening, long after her colleagues had gone home, long after the museum staff had given up on her obsession. She had used every contact her father had once held, called upon every favor owed to the Westbrook name, and written with increasing urgency as each thread unraveled into something darker, deeper, more ancient than she had dared believe at the start.

Bantahla.

She whispered it now, under her breath, as though it might hear her.

It had begun with the manuscript, yes—but it had never truly been about ink and parchment. The moment she uncovered that first map, that first sigil etched in weathered leather, Minnie had felt something shift. Her father had warned her in one of his final journal entries: “The truth is often buried not for protection, but to spare those who would dig it up.” He had written it after a return from Cairo, his eyes hollowed by something he refused to explain.

Minerva had been raised not on fairy tales, but on expeditions. Her father had taken her to the corners of the British Museum by candlelight and taught her to read Sumerian cuneiform before she could properly sew. She had sat beside him as he transcribed whispered tribal lore from a man who refused to speak above a murmur. She had known how to handle ancient vellum long before she had ever danced at a society ball—and even when she had done so, it was always with a mind half-distracted by some artifact waiting in her office.

And now… this.

The letter from William had confirmed everything. Not in details—but in tone. He knew.

She stood slowly from her chair, her skirts rustling softly against the rug beneath her. Her boots clicked across the floor as she made her way to the tall cabinet at the far end of the archive, unlocking it with one of the brass keys that never left her chain. She withdrew the manuscript first, carefully wrapping it in waxed linen cloth, then laid it beside the bound copy of Fenwick’s journal—its pages now annotated in her own hand, marked with silk ribbons and pressed flowers to track recurring symbols.

She placed them both in the secure courier chest the museum reserved for diplomatic transport—an act which had required weeks of bureaucratic maneuvering and the reluctant cooperation of the Earl of Pembroke’s secretary. Sir Harold had proven surprisingly helpful in securing the necessary passage to Iringa, though not without offering his own opinions on the matter—opinions Minerva had quietly ignored.

She returned to her desk and sat, the gaslight catching the glint of her spectacles as she dipped her pen once more in ink.

⸻

October 17th, 1874
Ol Oiboni Enkipaata
Iringa, Ngorongoro Highlands

Mr. Maubrey,

I must thank you—for the consideration, the candor, and the restraint with which you responded to my letters. I can only imagine the great number of reasons you have for declining such petitions, and I count myself fortunate that you have not done so in this case.

Your conditions, while firm, are understandable. I am not unacquainted with the weight of what I ask, nor ignorant of the risks such knowledge often carries. I do not pursue this matter from a place of vanity or romanticism. This is not a quest for lost cities or treasure maps—but for the preservation of truth, of record, of legacy. If that makes me ambitious, so be it. If it makes me naïve… well, I suspect I have already passed beyond that stage.

The manuscript and accompanying journal will be dispatched by secure courier within the week, accompanied by a sealed case of relevant notes, translations, and ciphered sketches. I trust you will find them organized and annotated to your preference. I have refrained from making interpretive assumptions, though you will no doubt recognize the symbols recorded in Pembroke’s pages. My interest lies not in speculation—but in clarity.

You mentioned that Africa has its rules. I believe you. And though I shall honor your stipulation not to travel, I hope you might consider this: knowledge is not a thing bound by oceans, nor are its consequences. Whatever truths lie hidden in the Crater or beneath the bones of Bantahla, they are not foreign to London—they are merely forgotten.

And you, Mr. Maubrey… you are the last man alive who has seen their shape.

Should you choose to share what you find—what you remember—I will be here. Waiting. Listening. Writing it all down.

Yours in earnest,

Minerva Westbrook
Royal Museum of Antiquities
South Kensington, London

Having re-read the letter several times over the past few weeks… William remained cautious, wary of the dangerous truths that could be uncovered, and wary of Minerva’s eagerness to proceed. He set boundaries, both for her and for himself, but he did so with a measure of reluctant respect for her persistence. He is offering his help, but with the understanding that this journey could be more than she bargained for. The weight of their recent literary history with Bantahla looms large, and it’s clear that Africa itself is both a guide and a challenge that neither of them can control.

The snow had not yet melted on the cobblestones outside Exhibition Road. Morning had barely broken when the envelope was delivered—its edges stiff with African dust, its weight oddly heavier than its single sheet should allow. Minerva Westbrook had risen early that day, as she often did in winter, lighting the small coal stove in her private archive chamber and settling in with a mug of strong, dark tea as the fog curled along the inside of the windows. She recognized the seal the moment she saw it.

The reply had taken four weeks to arrive. Every day since the postmark she’d made note of, waiting—wondering if it would come at all. But there it was. A letter from Iringa, from the edge of the world she had grown up reading about, a place etched in her bones long before she had seen it with her own eyes. She opened it without ceremony, read it once quickly, and then again, more slowly. Then a third time.

She folded it gently and placed it on the corner of her desk. There would be no hesitation in her response.

⸻

January 2nd, 1875
Ol Oiboni Enkipaata
Iringa, Ngorongoro Highlands

Mr. Maubrey,

Thank you for your letter. I received it on the twenty-sixth of December, a cold and unremarkable morning in South Kensington, though your words made the snow outside feel oddly less real. It’s a peculiar sensation, reading something written so many thousands of miles away—by firelight, I imagine, with the Highlands behind you like a wall of sleeping giants. There’s something grounding in knowing that two minds, so very far apart, are circling the same truth from opposite ends of the world.

You speak of caution, and of the land’s unforgiving rules. I do not take such words lightly, nor do I dismiss them with the arrogance of a young scholar intoxicated by the scent of aged parchment. But I feel I must speak plainly, lest you continue under any false impression about the kind of woman with whom you correspond.

I am not London’s creature, Mr. Maubrey. I never have been.

I was born on the Isle of Man, in a crumbling stone house not far from the sea. My mother, a woman of excellent lineage and little warmth, tried her utmost to train me for society. My father, however, had other plans. The moment I could walk without stumbling, he had me on steamboats and carriages, across the dusty roads of Egypt, the winding mountain trails of Anatolia, and the humid banks of the Congo. I spent my first years scribbling into the corners of his journals, pressing strange flowers between pages already stained with ink and sweat.

When I was eight, I held a bone fragment dated to the Old Kingdom in my palm, and I remember thinking it was the most beautiful thing in the world. At ten, I stitched my own moccasins from hide while stranded during a rainstorm in Thessaly. And by fourteen, I could identify a dozen tribal dialects by sound alone.

I was raised on the move—not in drawing rooms, but in dig sites and desert camps. I have slept beneath canopies of stars so brilliant they put cathedral ceilings to shame. I’ve knelt in mud up to my waist to retrieve what turned out to be a broken pipe stem, and I have considered it a day well spent.

So, you see, I am not the dainty blossom you might suspect sits behind a desk dusting off antiquities in satin gloves. I have scars that match my knowledge. I earned them, every one.

Your warning—that Bantahla is not merely history but something that lives beneath the skin of the earth—is not lost on me. I believe you when you say the land takes what it must. I believe it has already taken much from you. And yet, here we are.

I do not mistake your caution for dismissal. I respect it. I know you have seen what others have only dared to imagine in shadows. I am not asking you to relive your pain. I am only asking that you help me prevent others from walking blindly into it. Because they will, Mr. Maubrey. Someone always will.

Perhaps that is why this came to me.

My father used to say that stories do not choose listeners at random. They seek the ones who will remember them properly. The ones who will not water them down for the sake of comfort. You may not have chosen this path, but I suspect it chose you. And now it has chosen me, too.

Whatever you find—however fractured, however maddening—I will be ready. I cannot promise to understand it all at once. But I will listen. I will learn. I will not look away.

There is a part of me, even now, that feels the pull of the land. While I make no promises to ever set foot in Iringa in the future. I will honor that request. But understand that I am already walking beside you in every other way. And should this journey take you somewhere too far from the safety of written words, then you may trust that I will be here—to gather the pieces, to tell the story true.

May the land treat you gently,

Minerva Westbrook
Royal Museum of Antiquities
South Kensington, London

⸻

She set her pen down slowly, exhaling through her nose. Outside, the bells of St. Augustine’s rang the hour. She wrapped the letter, sealed it in thick parchment, and prepared the crate for its journey—another bundle of supporting materials, glyph etchings, weathered tracings, and a copy of a transcription she had been quietly working on in secret. There was more, always more, but for now, she had said what needed saying.

Not in defense.

But in truth.

William sat at his worn wooden desk, the faint light of the dying day casting long shadows across the room. His fingers hovered over the inkpot, the weight of the letter from Minerva still pressing on his mind. The words she had written echoed in his thoughts, each line a delicate blend of intellect and determination. He had expected a response, of course, but not the quiet strength she had conveyed. The letter from London lay to the side, the edges slightly curled, as he prepared to put his thoughts to paper.

Africa, with its vast and unyielding presence, had always spoken to him in ways words could never fully capture. But he would try. This was the beginning of something deeper than either of them could predict. The journey, it seemed, was already in motion.

The scent of spring clung to the parchment—faint but unmistakable. The letter was heavier than her usual, the envelope sealed in dusky violet wax stamped with her personal crest: a lion sleeping beneath an open book. A deliberate nod, perhaps, to the path she now walked.

The handwriting—elegant, slanted, assured—was hers. Minerva Westbrook, in her own hand, three months late. But not, she hoped, too late.

_______________________________________________________________________
Postmarked: April 11th, 1875
Bath, Somerset

Ol Oiboni Enkipaata
Iringa, Ngorongoro Highlands

Mr. Maubrey,

You will, I hope, forgive the delay of this reply. Your last letter reached me on the first of March, though it had been dated weeks prior—weather and distance conspired against the post, as they often do. I had intended to respond straightaway, but life, in its characteristically poor timing, intervened.

My mother, in one of her fits of dramatic insistence that London’s air was conspiring to kill us all with coal smoke and scandal, whisked the entire family away to Bath. We were meant to “take the waters,” though I suspect the true purpose was to spare her the embarrassment of another Season with her daughter conspicuously unengaged. I did not wish to be here, but one cannot always choose the stage upon which life insists they perform. I hope you understand, then, my silence was not willful.

It has, however, afforded me something else—a sort of clarity I might not have otherwise found.

You see, I had been making plans of my own prior to your last letter. There were invitations, quiet offers to join expeditions in the Americas—Peru, to be specific—where a colleague of mine has been cataloging petroglyphs in the cloud forest. I’d considered it seriously. The notion of escape to another hemisphere, to a place that demands nothing of me socially, was appealing.

And yet… I could not forget your letter. I have read it more times than I care to admit. Folded and unfolded it until the creases wore thin.

There is something in the way you write—not just the words themselves, but the rhythm of them—that makes it impossible to dismiss the truth you are trying to convey. You do not offer comfort. You offer warning. And I find that infinitely more valuable.

You were right, of course. We have crossed a threshold. Or perhaps… the path beneath us had already been charted, and we are only now realizing the direction it points.

Your mention of Bantahla’s pain being a consequence, not a reason, struck me deeply. My father used to say much the same thing—that the greatest truths never announce themselves gently. They arrive like storms. They tear things down so that something older might be uncovered beneath. It seems we are both standing amid the rubble, trying to read the patterns in the dust.

I do not expect this journey to offer me any great revelation. I have no fantasies left about tidy answers or glittering discoveries. I am not coming to write a book. I am coming to understand something that no map can define. And if that understanding comes at a cost…

Well, so be it.

You wrote that I might come—in spirit or in form. I choose the latter. I have made my decision. I shall leave for Iringa before the year’s end, and God willing, before the next London Season begins. I could not bear to pass another spring standing on the edge of other people’s conversations, dressed like someone’s idea of a bride and spoken of as though I were a curio collecting dust on the shelf. My mother will rage, of course. She will blame my father, and she will blame Africa, and eventually she will blame you. But it matters not.

I have spent too many years standing politely behind other men’s discoveries. It is time to meet the world on my own terms.

Your letter gave me the last piece I needed, Mr. Maubrey. I no longer wonder where I am meant to go. Only when. I will make the proper arrangements in the coming months. I understand the risks, and I accept the cost. You need not shield me from it.

And if I do not return…

Then let it be known I went of my own will, with my eyes open, and a pen in my hand. Perhaps, in some far future, someone will find my pages and remember me—not as a daughter, or a debutante, or even a scholar, but as a woman who sought the truth with everything she had.

Thank you, Mr. Maubrey, for answering me when you did not have to.

I will see you before the year is out.

Yours in conviction,
Minerva Westbrook
Bath, Somerset
Temporary Residence of the Westbrook Family

_______________________________________________________________________

She watched the courier take the letter at the gates of the Royal Crescent, then turned back toward the warm stone façade of the house she’d never asked to visit.

Her mother was inside, undoubtedly fussing over invitations and trimming silk. The Season loomed, and Minerva knew now that she would not be here for it. She would not spend another spring behind lace gloves and false smiles. There was a world waiting far from Bath’s perfumed parlors.

There was Africa.

There was Bantahla.

And a truth older than empire, waiting in the red earth and whispered winds.

She would go. And she would not turn back.

When the letter arrived, Will stood frozen for a moment, staring at the familiar, yet unexpected sight of the envelope. The violet wax seal caught the light in the late afternoon, almost as if it were daring him to move… daring him to acknowledge what he had tried to ignore for so long. His gaze lingered on it, his thoughts clouded by the weight of the past, the weight of her words, and the knowledge that Minerva Westbrook was no ordinary scholar.

The dust of Africa still clung to his hands, the scent of earth and stone ever-present in his cabin, yet now it was replaced with the faint but unmistakable aroma of paper and ink… a scent that called him back to a time and place he had long since tried to leave behind. He had anticipated this letter, knowing that Minerva's resolve would not be so easily extinguished by the distance between them. But as he stared at the letter, a strange mixture of dread and anticipation gripped him.

He had not wanted this. Not this engagement with the world beyond the land he had made his home. But the longer he held the letter in his hands, the more he realized that Bantahla, and the truth surrounding it, would never truly let him go. The land had claimed him, as it had claimed so many before, and now, somehow, Minerva had found her way to it as well.

As his fingers brushed the edges of the paper, a thought passed through his mind… Would she truly understand? Could she grasp the gravity of what she was asking… of what she was walking into? He doubted it. But then again, that was perhaps what made her dangerous… her bravery, her willingness to step into the unknown. And, to his surprise, he felt a flicker of something else… something like respect.

For a moment longer, he held the letter in his hands, the weight of it pressing down on him. He could feel the pull of Africa, the same pull that had kept him tethered to this place for so long. And he knew, deep down, that whatever this letter contained, it would mark the beginning of something far greater than either of them could fully comprehend. Finally, with a slow breath, Will broke the seal, the soft crack of wax echoing in the silence of his cabin.

There was no mistaking the salt-stiffened edges of the envelope when it arrived in Iringa. The ivory paper bore the scent of sea brine and lavender, faint but lingering, as though some part of England still clung stubbornly to its surface. The wax seal had cracked slightly in transit—Minerva’s crest, the lion and open book, now softly worn by the journey. But the handwriting inside was steady, deliberate, and unmistakably hers.

⸻
Postmarked: June 18th, 1875
From: Liverpool Docks

Ol Oiboni Enkipaata
Iringa, Ngorongoro Highlands

Mr. Maubrey,

You may forgive me, I hope, the briefness of this letter—not out of discourtesy, but due to necessity. I am writing you now from Liverpool, from the cluttered calm of my rented room above a maritime clerk’s office. The docks are alive with the scent of oil and salt, the din of crates being hauled by winch, and the shouts of seamen speaking a dozen tongues. I sail at dawn.

The RMS Sultana departs tomorrow for Zanzibar. She is a sturdy vessel—an older steamer, but well-appointed and reliable. The journey is expected to take between twenty-three and twenty-eight days, provided the monsoon winds do not delay us beyond the Red Sea. I’ve arranged passage under my own name, which may be unwise given the Crown’s interest in Pembroke’s line of inquiry, but I suspect discretion will not matter once I set foot on the continent. I do not travel with a retinue. I bring only a single trunk, a traveling case of my field journals and instruments, and one companion—Miss Evelyn Baker, a former botanical assistant at the Royal Gardens at Kew. She is sensible, discreet, and knows how to shoot straight when she must. I trust her implicitly.

I realize now that I should have written you sooner. But you must know how the Season grips even those who wish to escape it. I did not return to London so much as I was recalled there by familial obligation. The Westbrook name still carries weight among the drawing rooms of Mayfair, though heaven knows I’ve tried to tarnish it with enough scandalous refusals to marry. This year was no different—except for the knowledge that I would not remain long enough to endure the whispers. My gowns were not cut for dancing, Mr. Maubrey. They were cut to conceal weapons and notebooks.

And so, I left.

There is something strange about these final days in England. I walk the cobbled streets, past porters and carriages and coal-black horses, and I know I will not see them again. Not like this. The world will change when I reach your highlands. Or perhaps, it is I who will change.

Your letter confirmed what I already suspected: this is not a journey one returns from. Whether in body or mind, the path that leads to Bantahla is not one that allows for retreat. I do not expect comfort. I do not expect ease. But I do expect clarity—even if that clarity comes at a price.

I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Maubrey. It would have been far easier for you to dismiss me, or to protect me with condescension. But you did neither. You have treated me not as an interloper, nor as a woman out of her depth, but as a fellow bearer of truth. For that, you have my respect.

When I reach Zanzibar, I shall charter a guide through the German route inland—through Pangani, then west toward Tabora by rail and caravan. From there, I will travel by foot and cart through the southern trail that splits toward Iringa. I am told that stretch is unforgiving. I will plan accordingly. I do not expect a reception. I only expect the way forward.

I imagine you now in your cabin, the fire low, Africa’s scent in the air. Perhaps this letter will find you after another long day of sorting through our shared ghosts. Perhaps you will read it and sigh, wondering if I understand what I have truly committed to. I do, Mr. Maubrey. I do.

And yet I come anyway.

If fate intends to take me… let it be on the soil of something that mattered. Let it be in the service of a story too long buried. And if I survive—if I emerge from that place of dust and bones and memory—it will not be because I was cautious, but because I believed.

Until then,

Minerva Westbrook
Liverpool
RMS Sultana, Steam Packet Line
En route to Zanzibar, via Suez Canal

⸻

She folded the letter herself and sealed it with care, pressing the wax with the crest one last time before handing it to the harbor courier bound for the diplomatic post. There would be no turning back now.

The next morning, the ship’s whistle split the dawn. With the hem of her skirts lifted and her trunk already stowed, Minerva Westbrook boarded the vessel not as a lady of letters, but as a woman with purpose—her eyes fixed on the horizon, where the seas met the sky, and far beyond that, the red dust of Iringa and the forgotten name carved into stone:

Bantahla.

As the letter arrived at Iringa, Will sat at his desk, reading Minerva’s words once more. The ink still fresh, the scent of the sea lingering faintly in the air. Her decision to embark on this journey was not one he had expected, yet something in her writing… perhaps the strength of her resolve or the weight of her choices… struck him deeply. There was no going back for her now. She had committed herself to the path she had chosen, and he found himself at the heart of it, bound by the past and by the land he had come to know so well.

But now, she was on her way, aboard the RMS Sultana, bound for Zanzibar, with a guide arranged to lead her through the southern trail to Iringa. Her letter had confirmed what he already knew… she would arrive in due course, and her mind was set. She would not be deterred by the harshness of the journey, the land, or the uncertain truths waiting at the end. She was not just a scholar… she was a woman willing to meet Africa on its own terms, ready to face whatever it might throw at her.

He could not ignore the fact that she was, as she had put it, "walking into the unknown". While his heart told him that the land would demand its due, his practical side took over. He had the estate to prepare, and there were things he could do to make her arrival less taxing, though he would not admit it to anyone. William Maubrey was renown for having never been one to show unnecessary sentiment, but there was something about Minerva’s letter that had made him reconsider. She would not be greeted as a mere guest, but as someone who was about to take on a task far greater than either of them could fully understand.

Ol Oiboni Enkipaata, Will’s estate, nestled at the foot of the Ngorongoro Highlands, had been quiet for so long. The towering volcanic ridges that surrounded it seemed to stand guard against the outside world, casting long shadows over the sprawling grounds that lay beyond the main house. It was a place of solitude… a reflection of Will’s desire for peace, but also a place of secrets, a home that had once been filled with the echoes of his family’s grandeur. Now, only the earth and the wind spoke here, and those voices were silent in their warning.

The estate itself, though large and imposing, was simple in its furnishings, crafted more for comfort and function than for display. The main house consisted of a series of stone walls and thick, dark wood beams, the ceilings vaulted high, with windows that framed the ever-present views of the highlands. Inside, the rooms were spacious, but sparsely decorated… nothing extravagant, but practical, hints of decades of Victorian furniture, and African culture intermixed to suit his own taste… almost like a museum in itself.

Minerva’s quarters would be adjacent to his, not far from the study where he spent most of his days. He had thought it important that she be close, though not too close, as her work would require a certain degree of privacy and space. He arranged for a modest yet comfortable room, with windows that opened to the landscape, offering a view of the sprawling savannah below and the peaks of the Ngorongoro Crater in the distance.

It would be a space for her to think, to work, and to perhaps even feel that same sense of peace he had found here, in the land that had so completely enveloped him.

A wooden desk had been placed in the room, sturdy and practical, with ample space for her journals, field notebooks, and any drawings or maps she would need. The bed was simple but comfortable, the linens cool and crisp against the African heat. He had requested that the room be furnished with basic comforts… a small fire pit for warmth on the cooler nights, and a simple chair for reading and relaxation. He also ensured that there was a small shelf stocked with supplies for her work… copper tools, field guides, and a few books on local flora and fauna. And almost like a shrine, stood a pedestal, chest high, wide enough for the large book to be opened effortlessly, and a small shelf for a note pad. It looked handmade, and hopefully she would feel his prize stand was hers.

Perhaps the most important detail he had arranged for her was the bush wear. He had known from the start that Minerva would not be content with delicate Victorian gowns or the finer clothing of a typical debutante. Surely, a woman of her stature and status would have the standard English-made bush-wear… khaki trousers, cotton shirts, and sturdy boots… all designed for practicality. But Will, knowing better, turned to a few old contacts who specialized in field clothing for the most rugged terrain Africa could offer. They took the task seriously… maybe even more seriously than he anticipated. The clothes, once completed, were a sharp contrast to the stiff, conservative attire he had imagined for her.

The clothes-maker and seamstress had taken great delight in teasing Will about his old-fashioned views. They joked that his perception of Minerva’s wardrobe was far too restrained and had made it their mission to do the opposite of what he had suggested. Their laughter filled the workshop as they fashioned garments that would ensure Minerva was not only well-equipped but comfortable in the harshest of conditions. The trousers and shirts were made with durability in mind, but the tailoring reflected a more modern approach… a touch of freedom in the design that would allow her to move with ease, while still maintaining a certain sense of practicality.

Though Will hadn’t fully understood the bold choices they had made, the end result was undeniable. Minerva would be ready to face whatever the African wilderness could throw at her, though she might look more like a woman prepared for a safari than the dignified scholar he had first envisioned. And in the end, he couldn’t help but admire the care with which the clothes were crafted… both for her comfort and the humor in the process. Impressed with what they had devised, he ordered at least three sets and gave them a gratuitous monetary tip at the end.

The clothing would also reflect her new role… no longer a society lady in a drawing room, but a scientist on safari, prepared to trek across the unknown. The attire was designed for mobility, for exploration, for surviving the harshest conditions that the highlands and savannahs might offer. The fabric was durable, and each piece had been thoughtfully selected to ensure she would be prepared for the elements… from the scorching heat of midday to the cold nights spent under the open sky.

In a hidden compartment, a small pouch of field tools had been added, should she need them… compasses, surgical scissors, maps, and local flora specimens. The very essence of what she would now be… a woman stepping into the unknown, ready to uncover the secrets of a world that had long since been forgotten.

As the final details of her travel arrangements were settled, Will felt the tension of anticipation settle in. Her arrival would mark the beginning of something neither of them could predict. The manuscripts and journals waited in her room for her arrival… and together they would begin to piece together the puzzle that was Bantahla.

He had seen the dangers of such quests before, and part of him wondered if he had made the right decision by allowing her to come. Yet, another part of him… the part that was both respectful and reluctant… understood that Minerva’s intelligence, dedication, and bravery were exactly what was needed for this journey.

The winds were picking up outside, carrying the smell of rain from the far-off mountains. The first storms of the season would be coming soon, and with them, a sense of change.

Will stood in the middle of the room, looking out over the land that had come to mean so much to him. He would prepare, as best as he could, for the arrival of the woman who had chosen this path alongside him. But in his heart, he knew one thing for certain… there would be no turning back. Not for her, and not for him.

Ol Oiboni Enkipaata
Ngorongoro Highlands, Tanganyika
August 1st, 1875

The cart creaked to a halt at the crest of the path, its wheels grinding softly against the red, sun-baked earth. The land beyond stretched wide and endless, sloping down from the volcanic ridges of the highlands into the valley below like a great, slumbering creature. The wind was dry and restless, carrying with it the scent of dust, ash, and something faintly sweet—acacia bloom, perhaps.

Minerva Westbrook lifted her gaze from the brim of her hat as the estate came into view.

Ol Oiboni Enkipaata.

She had imagined it a thousand different ways in the quiet hours aboard the Sultana, and a thousand more during her winding journey inland. But standing here now, with the sun warm on her back and the breeze tugging at the hem of her shirt, she realized no imagining could have captured the truth of the place.

It was a structure of stone and spirit. Weathered by the land, fortified by time. The house sat low and solid against the earth, not grand in the English sense, but proud in a way that only Africa could make a home. The veranda was open and shaded, framed by thick wooden beams carved with unfamiliar patterns. A scattering of outbuildings stretched nearby—stables, storage, and something that looked like a small workshop.

Minerva shifted forward on the bench of the cart, resting her gloved hands on her thighs.

She did not descend at once.

There was a reverence in her stillness—an awareness that this place was not hers, not yet, and might never be. She had not come to conquer or to claim. She had come to witness.

Finally, with a quiet breath, she stepped down from the cart, her boots landing with a soft thud. The driver—a man of few words—offered her a nod as he set her trunk and satchel on the dusty path. She thanked him in Swahili, her accent clipped but clear, and handed him a folded note of payment. He took it without comment and turned the cart back toward the trail, leaving her alone with the house… and with what lay beyond it.

She removed her hat and ran a hand over her hair, drawing it back over her shoulder, then squared her stance and stepped toward the front steps.

She did not mount them.

Instead, she remained at the base, sunlight painting her shoulders in gold and shadow. The manuscript, the letters, the months of anticipation—they all weighed upon her, and she felt every inch of that weight now. She would not begin this next chapter by barging into a stranger’s sanctuary.

And so, she raised her voice.

“Mr. Maubrey?” she called, her tone clear, formal, but not without warmth. “It is Miss Westbrook.”

A pause, just long enough to let the wind fill the space between them.

“I hope you don’t mind the delay in my arrival. I took the liberty of losing myself briefly to Zanzibar.”

She waited, dust clinging to her person, her hands relaxed at her sides. There was no fear in her posture. Only readiness. Quiet, resolute, unmistakable.

She was not the woman he had envisioned in his early letters. She was not a figure of lace and fainting couches, nor a young miss with romantic delusions about savage lands. She was something else entirely.

Minerva stood at the foot of the steps, the African sun casting its golden crown upon her, turning the dust around her boots into glowing embers. She was not tall by any stretch—standing at a modest 5’5”—but there was something in the set of her shoulders, in the deliberate stillness of her posture, that made her seem unshakably grounded. As though the earth itself might rise to meet her, rather than the other way around.

Her body was soft in some places and strong in others, shapely but not fragile—a woman’s figure, not a girl’s. The kind one might dismiss as ordinary in a ballroom, but utterly striking here, against the stark wildness of the land. She had the kind of presence that refused to be overlooked, not by flair or ornament, but by sheer substance.

Her skin, fair by English standards, had already begun to take on the blush of the equatorial sun, bronzed along the bridge of her nose and the curve of her cheeks. A faint constellation of freckles danced across her face, as if the land had marked her already. Her eyes—large and bright green with flecks of hazel—held a steady, unwavering focus, intelligent and observant. They missed nothing.

Her mouth, framed by a strong but feminine jaw, had a natural downturn when in thought, but it softened easily, especially when she was speaking of her work. Now, as she called for William, there was the hint of a dry smile tugging at one corner—wry, quietly daring.

Her hair was a rich, dark chestnut, braided into a long plait that hung neatly down her back, heavy and well-kept despite the journey. A few wisps had escaped around her temples, curling gently from the humidity and brushing her cheeks with the intimacy of old friends. She made no effort to tame them.

Her attire was practical, but not without care. A lightweight expedition shirt of soft, sun-faded ivory was tucked into her khaki jodhpurs, which hugged her hips and thighs before tapering into the high laces of her worn leather boots. The ascot around her neck—a muted olive silk—was more for protection than fashion, though it lent a touch of refinement. A wide-brimmed canvas hat hung down her back by its chin strap, now removed out of respect as she stood beneath the shadow of the house.

There was no perfume about her—only the clean scent of dust, old parchment, and sunlight caught in cotton. A brass compass hung from her belt, worn smooth at the edges. Her hands, gloveless now, bore faint ink stains on the fingertips and a small, pale scar across her left palm, just below the thumb—evidence of a life spent among fieldwork and old stone, not tea cups and embroidery.

She was not what the Empire would call beautiful.

In the right eyes, Minerva would be considered a timeless beauty with a tad of rustic charm. Others simply considered her a simply bookish girl with one too many thoughts.

And as she waited in the silence for her host to appear, she did not fidget or glance over her shoulder. She merely stood, quiet as the savannah behind her—unmoving, but undeniably present.

The air in Iringa was thick with the dry scent of dust, the sun now sinking low behind the towering volcanic ridges. William stood at the edge of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His thoughts, though momentarily distracted by the beauty of the land, were consumed by the journey Minerva was undertaking. Her letter had arrived, and with it, the knowledge that the distance between them was now less of an obstacle and more a mere measure of time. Still, he knew the land would demand its due from her… just as it had from him. But now, Minerva’s course was set.

In the distance, faint smoke rose from a high ridge, twisting in lazy coils against the sky. The Maasai had already begun their work for their blood-brother. He didn’t need to ask, for he knew the meaning of the signals. The long column of smoke signified Minerva’s arrival in Zanzibar and the start of her inland trek. The Maasai, ever vigilant, had kept watch over her progress since the moment she had left the docks. Their messengers, swift as the wind, had followed her every move, relaying to him, piece by piece, the path she carved through the bush.

As the smoke began to thin, another flare of fire lit up farther south, near Pangani. It was another marker, this time signaling her passage through the coastal region. The message was clear… Minerva was undeterred. The journey had not been easy, but she was moving steadily inland, just as she had promised in her letters.

The crackling of a distant drumbeat caught his attention. It was a rhythm that spoke volumes… a steady, urgent tempo that had been used to communicate swift progress. One of the Maasai messengers must be near. A rider would be close behind, carrying a more detailed report. William knew the messenger would arrive soon, the information they carried already prepared for him. The beat of the drum reverberated through the air like a pulse, each thrum telling him she was drawing closer.

As the first stars began to appear over the horizon, William’s thoughts shifted once again. He knew that soon, the Maasai would turn to the night sky for navigation, using the stars as markers for her exact location. Every point of her journey would be written across the heavens, each constellation a waypoint along her route. If the moon’s phase was correct, she would be nearing Tabora, where she would begin her journey through the more difficult sections of the southern trail. He would hear of her progress soon enough… perhaps sooner than expected.

As he watched the stars above him, William couldn’t help but wonder about the moment she would finally arrive at Ol Oiboni Enkipaata. Her journey would be a long one, filled with dangers both seen and unseen, but she would arrive… of that, he was certain. He would be ready.

Then, with a familiar sound, the whistle reached his ears. Looking to the figure below the veranda, the man pointed to the north horizon. A figure appeared through the heat haze of the lowlands, a Maasai messenger, one of several who had been following Minerva’s trail. The messenger’s movements were very readable as he swung his spear and shield and a free arm… then pointed to the east… to the knowing the movements equated to her status… Minerva’s progress was on course, her journey was steady, and her spirit unbroken. William understood… “Send the response, acknowledged…” Looking back to the man below the veranda. The tall slim., yet muscled man waved his arms, then waited… and all he received form the far away messenger was a thumbs high sign. Will could not help but laugh. “Centuries old methods… yet, he sends a *thumbs high*…” speaking to Iain behind him. “She is close…”

“Aye MiLord… wha’ do yae think she be like… Old, wrinkled... middle aged… beautiful… dainty…?” the old Scotsman spoke softly, his accent thick… curious, especially since he had not read her letters… on the fact that the woman made the journey.

William chuckled as Iain spoke… these two old friends…. One English, the other a Scot… as they almost silently debated Minerva’s description… Will’s thoughts would be measured, perhaps even a bit guarded, as was his way. He would never offer an overly personal opinion… especially not of someone who had only just arrived in his life… but if pressed, he would likely offer an answer that reflected both curiosity and a growing respect for the woman who had chosen this journey. “She, I presume is… not what you might expect at first glance,” he would begin, perhaps after a moment of careful reflection. “I would venture to say her appearance would be… well, understated, yet purposeful. A certain sharpness of her eyes that suggests she sees more than most, even in a room full of people. I think she would carry herself with dignity, though there’s something about her that doesn’t quite conform to what society would have her be. Not a lady of society, mind you, but a scholar, and not someone easily defined by her clothes or her station.”

“Aye, then she must be olde… certain in ‘er own ways… thus nae a delicat’ flower.” The Scotsman teased.

“Oh hush ye old Scot pirate… we all are old…” William huffed and walked into the house… “Let it be… this is business…” And Iain would scoff and chuckle. “Aye… business.”

Knowing Minerva was not far away, he would ensure that the quarters for her were prepared in the way he had planned. The room, near the study but distant enough to offer her some privacy, would be simple but equipped with everything she would need. There would be no luxury, only comfort and practicality… sturdy, comfortable furnishings to suit her needs as a scientist in the wild. He had arranged for a full set of bush-wear, altered to fit her form, the work of local tailors who had mocked his earlier notions of a more “proper” wardrobe for her. The clothes were meant for the journey ahead… khaki trousers, rugged shirts, boots made for walking, and a light jacket for the evenings, with careful attention to her comfort and freedom of movement.

William had gone to great lengths to ensure she would have everything she needed, including a few essentials… a sturdy field bag, compasses, tools for her work, and a small stash of provisions for her immediate comfort. It was, in essence, the wardrobe of a woman embarking not just on an expedition, but on something far greater… a journey that would test her body and her mind in ways she could never have fully understood before now.

The Maasai messenger, sensing that he had delivered his duty, began to move off, disappearing into the dusk as silently as he had arrived. William stood, watching him go, a quiet thought in his mind. There would be no turning back now for either of them. When Minerva arrived, there would be no more waiting, no more preparations. They would stand together at the precipice, ready to face the truth that awaited them. The journey had begun.

William stood on the veranda, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the sun was dipping low behind the volcanic ridges… he looked to where the last messenger had stood. The land, so familiar and yet forever changing, held a quiet power. He could feel the shift in the air, the arrival of someone who had been expected, but whose presence still unsettled him.

He had known the moment the cart had reached the crest of the path, and his eyes had already begun to trace the route she must have taken. His Maasai friends, ever watchful, had kept track of Minerva’s progress, from her time spent in Zanzibar to the long trek inland and relayed all information through an ancient system of communication coupled with one a bit more modern. Her delays had not gone unnoticed. The men, though silent in their vigilance, had made sure to inform him of her every movement… always from a distance, always in shadow, but always close enough to remain unseen. And now, she was here.

Seeing Minerva for the first time, William took a long breath… even in African dust, her fair skin already with the blush of the Tanzanian sun… her nose and cheeks tainted a light bronze despite the proper hat… but what caught his eyes were the faint pattern of freckles on her face, as if the gods had placed them there as a mark… his gaze was interrupted by the feeling of the evening wind stir through the highland air. She was nothing like he had expected… He guessed she was in her mid-20s, beautiful… healthy… and he swallowed.

He had known she would arrive with determination, and that determination was as clear as ever in the way she called his name. He could almost hear the steadfastness in her voice, her resolve clear even from this distance. But the experience she had mentioned, and her determination were the keys to his mistaken view of what she would appear to be… very wrong… “Miss Westbrook… I am Will Maubrey…” he finally spoke, his tone steady but not without a hint of warmth, though it was the sort of warmth born from recognition rather than hospitality. He had spent years among the Maasai and had learned their way of honoring guests without unnecessary ceremony. There would be no grand entrance, no formalities.

Now standing on the porch… Will nodded to Iain, who stood just inside the threshold, awaiting Minerva’s arrival. William’s oldest friend and a man who understood the weight of exile and the cost of a life spent in shadows, stepped forward at his signal. As a man of noble birth, Iain knew how to handle guests of importance, how to offer courtesy without pretense.

William then urged Iain forward… “Miss Westbrook, this is Iain Stuart, 17th Earl of Moray… a friend too old for safari, so he watches the estate and my financial matters.” And Will smiled.

Iain greeted her at the base of the steps, his voice deep and measured. “Miss Westbrook, Ae presume?” His gaze was direct, his demeanor unfazed by her formal introduction. “Ae trust th’ journey was a smooth as such a journey caen bae, considerin’ th’ trials o’ th’ highlands.”

William stood on the porch, knowing Minerva’s sharp gaze would take in the quiet dignity of the surroundings, and that her presence here would mark a turning point… not only in her own life but in the course of the secrets they were about to unravel together. Bantahla, and all it represented, would never allow them the luxury of retreat. They would face it together, but only on the land’s terms, never their own.

He gestured for Iain to escort Minerva inside, where cool water and a small tea service had been prepared in her honor. The cool water and warm tea were an offering of comfort… a gesture of respect, though neither he nor Iain expected her to linger long over pleasantries. She had come for something more. She had come to understand. And as Iain passed Will… he smirked and spoke in a whisper… “Aye Laddie… business… Yer th’ one too olde…” then he chuckled and stepped toward Minerva…

From the porch, William silently sneered at Iain… then gave one last look to the setting sun before turning back inside. This chapter, too, had begun. Africa had claimed her now, just as it had claimed him. And neither of them would ever be the same again.

Minerva stood at the foot of the steps, the wind tugging softly at the ends of her braid, and the deep golden light of the Tanzanian dusk painting her features in amber and rose. The long journey had left her dusty, sun-flushed, and travel-worn, but none of that diminished the quiet composure she carried like armor. If anything, it enhanced it.

She inclined her head in greeting, her spine straight, one hand resting lightly atop the strap of her satchel as if to keep herself grounded. The muscles in her legs still thrummed from the days of travel, but she stood without swaying, the exhaustion tucked neatly behind her eyes.

“Mr. Stuart,” she answered with a small smile, her voice cultured, low, and clear. “You presume correctly.”

She extended her hand without hesitation—firm, confident, but not brash. “Minerva Westbrook.”

Her accent was undeniably refined, but there was a hint of earthiness there too. Her vowels were clipped with the elegance of London, yet softened by long days among ruins, border camps, and steamships. It was a voice that had argued with museum boards and laughed with laborers in the same breath.

Her gaze flicked past him briefly, taking in the structure behind—the dark stone archways, the open-air veranda, the distinct marks of Maasai construction blended with Victorian austerity. The estate was… precisely what she had imagined. Not decadent, not fragile. A bastion. A working place of thought, of quiet intention. Her heart stirred faintly. She had crossed oceans for this. It felt right.

“I assure you, my lord, the journey was as smooth as one could expect for the territory,” she said wryly. “Though I suspect your idea of ‘smooth’ and mine might differ somewhat.”

She shifted her weight, just enough to ease the travel bag from her shoulder and let it settle gently against her thigh. Her shirt clung to her in places from the climb, but she made no move to adjust herself. The highland air, cooler now that the sun had sunk behind the ridges, had begun to wash over her, easing the heat from her skin.

“This estate… it’s rather striking. The way it embraces the land rather than attempting to tame it. There’s a humility to it. I rather admire that.”

Her green eyes swept the land once more—beyond the veranda, to the sea of waving grasses and the sharp outlines of the volcanic peaks. The air smelled of dry earth, wild herbs, and something else… faint woodsmoke, perhaps. It was unlike anything she’d known, and yet, she didn’t feel foreign here.

She glanced back to Iain, her smile softening just a fraction. “And thank you for seeing me in. After so many days with little more than sand and silence for company, I’m almost grateful for the formality.”

Her attention was drawn briefly to the house—its wide threshold beckoning like the edge of a book she had long wanted to open. Still, she waited. There was a rhythm here she did not yet understand, and she had no intention of trampling over it.

“Would you…?” she gestured politely, giving Iain the opportunity to lead, her deference laced with curiosity. “I would rather not mistake one shadow for another. Not on my first evening.”

And as she stepped forward, her stride sure and unhurried, the fine red dust clinging to her boots, Minerva Westbrook felt it fully: she had crossed the threshold at last. Not of a home, but of something far older, far deeper. Something she had spent her life unknowingly preparing to meet.

William stood at the far edge of the veranda, watching with a keen eye as Minerva made her way up the path. The late-afternoon light painted her figure in soft gold, highlighting the dust on her clothes, the faint weariness in her posture, and the sharp composure she carried despite the long journey. He had not expected her arrival to be so… quiet, so determined. And yet, there she was, walking towards him with the calm assurance of someone who had already seen, and endured, far more than most could imagine.

He studied her, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as she greeted Iain Stuart… his old friend and companion in exile, a man who had seen the underbelly of both British society and the African wilds. Will's gaze lingered on Minerva as she stepped into Iain's space, her movements deliberate and unhurried, even in the presence of a stranger. The warmth of her tone didn’t quite match the hardness in her eyes, a mix that struck him as both unsettling and somehow perfectly suited to what they were about to undertake.

She was pragmatic, no doubt about that. He had come to expect that from the letters she had sent, the relentless pursuit of answers, the quiet determination that ran deeper than any form of mere scholarship. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Minerva had come with more than just a desire for knowledge. She came with something bigger, something complex, from the very land they were about to unearth together.

Her voice cut through the air… a cool, well-educated lilt that held a trace of something far less polished, something grounded in the harsh realities of the wild. It was a voice that could command the attention of scholars and workers alike, and now it spoke to him. There was no hesitation in her words as she complimented the estate, and yet he couldn’t help but notice the subtle glint in her eye as she examined the surroundings.

“Striking,” she had said, her gaze sweeping across the land as though already trying to decipher its secrets. It was no longer just her words that held weight, but the way she saw things… an understanding that came from something far deeper than the conventional.

His thoughts drifted as she spoke, but his attention never fully wavered. He had chosen the words carefully, arranged the house in such a way that it would not feel like a mere encampment but something more… something meant to blend, to coexist with the land rather than fight it. She would not find herself encased in luxury or in a place too foreign to be called a home. This was the wilderness. It would test her, just as it had tested him.

Iain’s voice broke his reverie as he led Minerva toward the wide threshold, and Will stepped back into the shadows of the house, preparing to meet her inside. He couldn’t help but watch as Minerva’s stride grew more confident, more assured with each step she took toward the entrance.

Despite her quiet resolve, he knew that she was not here for comfort. She had come to face what most would never have the courage to face. And he would not shield her from it. Not now. Not ever.

The fire in the hearth of the main room crackled softly, and the smell of tea and bush-wear lingered faintly in the air, a reminder of the simple comforts he had arranged. The faintest twinge of uncertainty stirred within him, a reminder of how this journey would affect not just Minerva, but them both. But he pushed it aside. He would not show it.

As Minerva stepped forward, her boots pressing softly into the red dust, her figure framed in the light of the setting sun, Will’s mind finally quieted. It was done. She was here. And now, the work would begin.

He allowed himself a moment’s thought… a fleeting recognition of how different this all was from what he had imagined. But Minerva Westbrook had crossed the threshold, and she would find her place here, in the shadows of the highlands, whether she was prepared for it or not.

As Iain and Minerva entered the house, Will made his way to the table where the tea had been set, his fingers brushing over the familiar surface, setting his thoughts into motion.

In the quiet of the house, he spoke aloud for the first time since her arrival. “You’ve come, then. Welcome to my humble abode.” he said, the words almost a question. He had no need to say more; Minerva already knew the risks. She had come for more than knowledge, and now they both stood on the edge of something far greater than either could have predicted.

The tea was ready, and the fire still burned bright. The night was settling in, and with it, the weight of what they were about to uncover. It had started. The journey was no longer just hers. It was theirs.

Minerva stood just within the threshold, the heavy wood of the great door closing behind her with a muted thud, sealing her inside the house that already felt more honest than any manor she’d ever set foot in. Her bare hands, lightly calloused from years of fieldwork, rested calmly at her sides, the dust of the journey still clinging to her fingers, to the faint creases of her shirt, to the worn edges of her boots.

The scent of the room—leather, smoke, the faint bite of the highland air—was grounding. She lifted her gaze to the two men before her, one gray with the wear of many seasons, the other sharper, leaner, but marked just as deeply by the world beyond civilization. Both stood with the unmistakable bearing of men who had long ago abandoned the rigid trappings of polite society for something far older, far truer.

When Mr. Maubrey spoke—You’ve come, then. Welcome to my humble abode—she felt something like a current ripple through the room, subtle but undeniable. Acknowledgment. Invitation. And perhaps… a quiet warning.

Minerva stepped further in, her hand lightly brushing the worn back of a nearby chair as if acquainting herself with the bones of the place. She offered a small, genuine smile—not the polished sort she had worn at London dinner parties, but one touched with something far more rare: gratitude.

“I have come,” she said softly, her voice low but clear. “And I thank you both for receiving me… even if reluctantly.”

She turned slightly, her gaze passing between Iain Stuart and William Maubrey with the measured precision of someone weighing her next words carefully. The fire crackled softly, casting shifting shadows across her face—the flush of travel on her cheeks, the subtle fatigue lining her eyes, and beneath it all, the steady pulse of fierce, unwavering purpose.

“If I may,” she began, her tone slipping into something just a touch more formal, respectful but not meek, “I would ask something of you, before we set too deeply into the business that brought me here.”

She allowed a brief pause, gathering the air into her lungs as if steadying something long-held within her.

“My father,” she continued, “was Sir Archibald Westbrook. Perhaps the name is not unfamiliar to you.”

There was a quiet dignity in the way she said it—not pride, exactly, but something older. Devotion, perhaps. Memory.

“He held his title only a few years before he passed. Long enough for his name to be entered into the ledgers of courtesy, too short to leave much of a mark in the grand halls of London. The only one who kept up the niceties afterward was my mother, and even she wore the burden more than she bore it.”

Her gaze lowered briefly, but only for a heartbeat, before she lifted it once more to meet theirs.

“My father… was a man of the field. Of libraries, yes—but also of lost cities, of artifacts gathered by hand in lands that had no place on the maps of the Empire. He believed there were truths hidden too deep for titles, too wild for ledgers and parades. It cost him dearly. Perhaps it even killed him.”

Her hand unconsciously brushed the satchel still slung at her hip, the weight of her father’s old field knife within a silent talisman.

“I am here,” she said, her voice firm now, the edges of it honed like a blade, “because I have no interest in embroidery, in the endless theater of marriage markets and drawing rooms. I am here to finish what he began. To honor what he believed in. Even if it demands the last breath of me to do it.”

She shifted her weight slightly, the dust of the long road settling around her boots like a halo of earth, her braid brushing the middle of her back as she squared her shoulders.

“I do not expect protection. Nor pity. Only the chance to work—to seek, to uncover, and to stand where he stood, even if the ground beneath my feet gives way in the end.”

The words hung between them in the firelit room, carried on the quiet breath of the highland wind that rattled faintly at the eaves. She did not flinch under their gaze, nor soften her expression. She was not there to beg acceptance. She was there to belong to the work.

After a moment, her mouth curved into a faint, sardonic smile.

“And if my hands are too rough for a lady’s, or my spirit too stubborn for a scholar’s, then I suppose Africa shall be the judge of it soon enough.”

Minerva folded her hands loosely in front of her, calm once more, awaiting their reply. Ready—utterly ready—for the storm to begin.

William stood still, his gaze never leaving Minerva as she spoke. Her words were sharp and clear, each one a deliberate cut into the air between them. He listened, absorbing the weight of her presence, the quiet but undeniable strength of her resolve. It was not arrogance she displayed, but a determination that spoke of years spent wrestling with more than just the expectations of society. She had crossed oceans to get here. He could see that, feel it in the quiet force of her voice, in the way she carried herself, despite the travel and fatigue clinging to her form.

Her description of her father was not one he had expected, but it rang with a truth that was unmistakable. A man of the field… a scholar of a different breed. It reminded him, in a way, of his own father. But even more, it reminded him of the toll such a life could take, the price of uncovering truths that were hidden beneath layers of time and land. Minerva’s words spoke not only of her father’s legacy but of her own conviction to carry it forward, to complete a task that had been abandoned long ago.

As she spoke of Africa, of her desire to stand on the same ground her father had trod, William felt something shift within him. There was a recognition there… a recognition of someone who had made the same choice he had. To leave behind the comforts of civilization and immerse oneself in the wild, in the untamed. It was a choice that had shaped him, and it seemed to have shaped her in the same way.

Minerva’s voice was steady as she spoke of her intent, of the truths she sought, and of her refusal to be swept into the theater of society’s expectations. It was clear that she was not here to make a name or seek approval. She was here for something greater. Something deeper.

William, standing at the far end of the room, felt a strange pull. The words she spoke… so measured, so sure… felt as though they were meant for him, and yet for the first time since Minerva’s arrival, he allowed himself a moment to let her words sink in.

He could see her for who she was now, and something within him stirred. She had not asked for his approval, nor had she asked for his help. She had asked only for the opportunity to work alongside him, to dig into the earth and uncover whatever it held. There was no softness in her request… no plea for protection. She had come to face whatever the land had to offer, to stand on the same soil her father had once stood on.

When she finished, her words hanging in the air, William moved. His gaze softened only slightly as he approached her, taking in the way she stood…grounded, despite the weight of the journey that had brought her here. His eyes, sharp and focused, met hers with quiet respect. "You’ve come, then," he said, his voice low but steady, no longer carrying the weight of distance or hesitation. "I can see that." He paused, the fire crackling between them, the warmth of it adding to the stillness that had settled over the room. He had known this moment would come, but he hadn’t quite understood what it would feel like to have her standing before him. But now, as he looked at her, he understood.

He gestured toward the room behind him, a space that had once been his sanctuary, now altered to accommodate both of them. The house, like the land, had been built to embrace, not to control. And he stepped to her, taking her hand… his eyes focused directly into hers… "I don’t expect your hands to be like a lady’s, Miss Westbrook," he said with a small, almost imperceptible smile, the faintest touch of humor breaking the otherwise serious tone of his voice... and then he squeezed her hand and smiled… "Nor do I expect your spirit to be that of a scholar who waits for answers to be handed to her. I’ve no interest in those who wait. Only those who act."

He stood for a moment, considering her words… her certainty, her fierceness. He could see it in her eyes, that same stubbornness, that desire to uncover the unknown. He had seen it in himself many years ago, when he had first stepped into this land, unsure of what he sought but certain that it was here, beneath the soil, beneath the stones. He had now witnessed many similarities between them… and it warmed his heart.

Releasing her hand, he stood next to the fireplace… “You will protection here, just as all the others here… no less no more…" he said finally, his voice quieter now. "But you shall find no barriers except those of your own mind and heart... You ’ll find the work gratifying… the people honest and hard working... And, I suppose, the same questions I have been asking for far too long."
He turned, walking toward the fire, letting the warmth wash over him. "I am not here to stop you, hinder you, or dissuade you, Miss Westbrook. I will guarantee my assistance is yours only if needed..." He looked back at her, his eyes unwavering. "But you will have what you need to do the work. That, I can promise."

The air shifted with a subtle, almost imperceptible change. The evening had fallen into something more than just the beginning of their shared task. It had become, for the first time, something shared—something they both had to face together. And in that moment, William knew one thing for certain: their journey had just begun, and it would be a journey neither of them could have imagined.… then he spoke softly… “Oh, I know Africa shall be the judge of us all…”