Legacy of a Rain Queen: Book 1 The Eagles Martial, #1

By Karabo Finger

Nolwazi Rahlaga is a survivor of a car crash that killed both her parents when she was but three months old. We follow the story of her awakening to her true identity as the last in the line of great queens and kings. Living in a self-made security bubble, fearful of a violent past and unaware of the responsibilities resting upon her shoulders; she must undergo a unique and painful initiation in order to reawaken the spirit of Modjadji, the rainmaking queen of the Balobedu tribe. Set in 2016 Nelspruit, Nolwazi lives an ordinary life in post-apartheid South Africa, teaching African History at the local university. She meets Mohale Motlalepula, a man who triggers her spiritual awakening. We discover their shared past lives in 1623 Zimbabwe where he was a powerful warrior who helped her escape her father and his deadly plot to have her destiny as the first rain queen denied. Legacy of a Rain Queen, The Eagles Martial is a first in a three part historical saga that follows the lives of the legendary Rain Queens of the Balobedu.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helpmyworld Publishing
• Release date: Apr 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393363620

Book preview

Legacy of a

Rain Queen

Book 1

The Eagles Martial

Legacy of a

Rain Queen

Book 1

The Eagles Martial

Karabo Finger

Copyright © 2020 by Karabo Finger

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author except

for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in South Africa

First Printing, 2020

ISBN: 978-0-620-85721-5

The author believes, on the strength of due diligence

exercised, that this work does not contain any material

that is the subject of copyright held by another person.

Helpmyworld Publishing

www.helpmyworldpublishing.co.za

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents  are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Glossary

Dedication

A dedication to my angels in plain clothes: Martie and Johan Voges, Muneera and Shaykh Fadlallah Haeri, Etriscia Du Preez, Shameen Yacoob, Zahraa and Zahid Minty, Moya Taylor, Sarah and Casper Venter, Paula Akukizibwe and my editor Keitu Reid. May all your wildest dreams come true.

A dedication to the Sithole Brigade: Ngwakwana, Seropole, Nakampe, Moloko, Mamabeka, Mankgahla and Nontsikelelo. You embody the force that brought this work to life. Thank you for your trust, support and unwavering faith.

Lastly, a dedication to my Angels. I continue to be amazed and as a result, humbled.

For Ngwakwana,

born to bear witness,

Modimo wa go dya boswa.

Foreword

Karabo Finger beckons us, through her novel: Legacy of A Rain Queen, to enter and engage with South African heritage, history and culture. As we do so, we discover that it may be that there is no such a place as South Africa historically, but that there was Southern Africa in the distant past; a confluence of Botswana, Zimbabwe and South Africa, that links were created via Mozambique through Maputo - beautiful landscapes and provides settings in different lifetimes passionate love affair between Nolwazi Rahlaga and Mohale Motlalepula.

The couple meet in Nelspruit, the capital city of the Mpumalanga Province (from where the sun rises). It is a place which forever flaunts nature’s beauty through its mountains, landscapes, game parks, flora and fauna. Here, archaeological evidence abounds about the knowledge of the indigenous people, their skills and expertise and the cultures which, quietly, against the greatest odds, are beginning to claim the present through their descendants. In post-apartheid South Africa, these are the born free children.

However, fate and destiny, determine otherwise….

It determines that Nolwazi and Mohale’s encounter will be rooted in a past going back three centuries; a past of warriors, whose fierce spirits would come and claim the present. To them, the recent past of struggle for the liberation of the country, bewilders them. It is as present and as elderly as the elders are present; it will be present in the future seeking them, as Africa has done, to nourish and create an eternal spiritual gift for the human race. It is not for nothing that Nolwazi survived a terrible car wreck; it is also not coincidence that they, Mohale and Nolwazi met. Time should by now have buried that painful past; those nightmares of struggle must not be romanticised nor should they be allowed to become current narrative of nightmares. The present is here to be lived. The only challenge is that this, the past, keeps popping up, at unexpected times, at parties, at dinners, during holidays and at institutions of higher learning.

Nolwazi is an academic and Mohale a successful businessman. He is linked spiritually, to history through his warrior ancestors; she on the other hand has a calling, from the spiritual realm to be Rain Queen of Balobedu, who transformed gender relations from being just about men and women, to being about the human race. It is here, at the Zimbabwe ruins, at the top of the Mapungubwe Hill and at Thulamela here at the ancient kingdom sites and also at the miracle sites of what is now called the Kruger National Park which straddles several countries linking and connecting the geopolitics and history of the African people, that an eternal gift to humanity would emerge once more. Generations, beginning with that of Nolwazi and Mohale, would usher that gift to the world. Mohale and Nolwazi as midwives will, as if a raging volcano claiming its spiritual life, to live its past life in the present and with raging vibrations declare a cleansed past to root itself in the present and future. That past, its evidence, and its spirit and reality, vibrates now to take over the present through the science of spirituality and the spirituality of science. Posterity is restless, having to respond to the question: Who are you, as a child is born, and as the elders, Masekela and Moagi pass. The elder woman, Moagi and the warriors step in from that past and from that DNA to engage the restless youth for the future.

Mongane Wally Serote, December 2019, Johannesburg

PART ONE

"In the ‘short path’,

Man must begin by a conscious

search of his polar being.

If found, they can work together

on the film which – in its origin –

is common to them both."

- Boris Mauravieff, Gnosis

122 year Prologue

Mafarane Mountains, Limpopo. March 1894

An owl whoo-whooed softly from a tree nearby, rousing Masekela from a dream. He put on his cow skin robe and stepped out of the hut into the dark still night, leaving his wife and their newborn son sleeping peacefully. He made his way quietly through the small village in the direction of the woods at the foot of the Mafarane Mountains.

His father’s homestead was the last one on the south end of the village before the earth rose up into the lush forest. As he approached he turned to make sure no one had seen nor followed him.

There was the sound of coughing coming from inside a small hut. He’s getting worse, he thought as he stepped in through the doorway of the ndumba.

‘Masekela, you’re late. I sent mankhotlo’, said Mokodu between coughing fits. ‘Come in my boy.’

Masekela sat down and faced his father. ‘Yes, I heard the bird’s call. I was lost in a dream, pape. But I’ve forgotten it. There was something like a great lake beneath a mountain.’

‘Yes I saw your dream. Never mind it. How is your boy?’

Masekela smiled. ‘He grows stronger by the day, pape,’ he said, brimming with joy.

Mokodu saw in his son’s heart the love that only a father can have for his firstborn son. ‘Ah, your mother’s herbs will make him a strong, healthy boy.’ Mokodu then closed his eyes and was silent. An oil lamp cast a soft glow in the small hut.

Masekela regarded his father. Mokodu was an old man with a lean body, stronger than a man of his many years. As a young boy, Masekela always marvelled at his father’s height and stature. Now age had taken its toll on him. Frailty had crept into his once healthy frame. Add to that this worrying cough.

‘You come prepared?’ said Mokodu with his eyes still closed.

‘Yes, pape,’ replied Masekela, pushing aside thoughts of his father’s health, now wondering what tonight’s session held. They had been meeting in secret like this for over a moon now.

‘Good,’ said Mokodu. With his eye, he looked over Masekela’s energy body. Hmm, good healthy glow, happy, though anxious. Fire in his heart and belly, the reason why Masekela was chosen by Badimo to receive their teachings. He took a deep breath as he moved his eye further down his son’s body. Hmm, a hole in the energy field on the left knee, the one that’s been giving him trouble. Mokodu knew it was caused by Masekela’s baby. It meant that his son would prove to be a great disappointment later in life. This saddened Mokodu, he didn’t have the heart to tell Masekela. What he had to say tonight would prove heavy enough on his son. He sighed, which started him coughing again.

‘Pape, are you all right?’ asked Masekela, worry growing in his mind again.

‘Fine, fine. Never you mind, my boy.’ He rested his head against the wall and looked at Masekela through saddened eyes. ‘I have been shown the future, Masekela.’

‘Yes, pape.’ Masekela waited patiently.

‘Hlokomelang makhowa. The white man brings with him a great evil onto the land of our fathers. Beware his greed, beware his insatiable hunger, his inclination to dominate and control. He will not rest until he has taken everything. Our way of life is in danger. Much will be lost, my son.’

‘Pape!’ Masekela spoke with dread in his voice. ‘This is the land of our ancestors! Where will we go?’

Mokodu ignored this. ‘Our Lady is in danger. Should the kingdom of Modjadji fall our people will be enslaved to the beast of the white man for many generations to come. A great drought will follow. Famine. Sorrow. Disease. Chaos. And then... desolation.’

Masekela thought of his boy growing up enslaved by a foreign power. Rage grew in his heart.

Mokodu saw this and warned his son, ‘Anger will not serve you well, Masekela. An angry man makes mistakes. The time at hand is a test of character and strength. Everything I teach you is meant to prepare you. Banish your anger and take on the mantle of knowledge.’

Mokodu paused for a long moment. ‘In the time when darkness has fully descended upon the world and chaos is king, a carefully planted seed will give life.’ He looked at his son for a long time.

Masekela sat with his head bowed, sadness taking hold of his young mind. Then he realised that his father was done, he got up and went out.

The hearth fire was reduced to smouldering embers. He collected a few in a dish and took this back to the hut.

‘Ah well done, my boy,’ said Mokodu as Masekela put the dish before him. Mokodu pinched a cocktail of herbs from another dish and placed them onto the coals. Soon the transcendental smoke would fill up the little hut.

Mokodu then filled his long smoking pipe with dried tobacco leaves. He lit it using a small piece of coal from the dish. Leaning back, he placed the pipe between his lips and took a long pull.

Then he said, ‘Now, let us begin.’

28 year Prologue

Polokwane, Limpopo. September 1987

Moagi walked for three days like a woman possessed. She woke up one morning and left the rest of the women of Thaba Lesedi, in the hills of Bolobedu, without a word. There was no time to explain, she may lose precious time.

She could not stop; she knew not where the energy came from. At her age her body had experienced too much backbreaking work, her spirit had grown weary from too much pain witnessed.

She walked. The thick soles of her feet wore through till she grew blisters which then burst open to bleed. She ignored the pain. The occasional car sped past. The road was long and lonely.

As she walked, she thought about what all this meant. Why did Badimo have to make everything so hard? After years of toil and hardship, years of the most dehumanising existence imaginable, must retribution come at such a high price? One must be tested at every step, at every turn. Moagi understood why the human spirit needed to endure turmoil for a time. But how much was too much?

She was eighty years old but had the strength of a thirty-five year old woman. A special herb had taken care of her since she realised this would take time, and she needed to be alive with all her mental faculties intact, thanks to Mamabeka. Her breasts were swollen and heavy with milk even though she had never bore a child. She had taken another herb for that a month in preparation. Mamabeka had herbs for everything, still she had raised an eyebrow as she ground up the lactation one for Moagi, thinking the old woman had finally lost it. How could Moagi explain something that even she wasn’t sure of?

She walked. The roads of old had been fenced up and forgotten. The white man had redrawn the map, carving up the land and sharing big pieces amongst themselves. The modern tarred roads were now her path through a now alien land. All the while as she walked, a left turn here and here around a bend she was never sure that she had got the vision right. Was she going the right way, she wondered anxiously.

When she arrived she thought maybe she had gotten lost indeed. It was late evening of the third day of her walk, and was therefore too dark to see. In her vision the mountain had been to the east and there was a valley below to the right of the road, with a drying dam. She couldn’t see the dam because of the dark.

While she was desperately trying to get her bearings, she saw the lights of a car heading her way in the distance. Hope flickered! Perhaps the car’s headlights would help her see if the dam was there in the dark. So she waited, anticipated.

As the vehicle drew close she saw from its headlights what looked like a big rock in the road ahead of it and gasped. The driver must have seen it at the same time as her because the car suddenly swerved to avoid the obstacle. He lost control and the car skidded, overturned and rolled off the road down the steep embankment. Moagi watched in horror as it flipped once, twice, three times, landing upright just at the edge of the dam.

Shrieking in panic, Moagi rushed into the bush after the stricken car.

She arrived at the wreck and tried to open the doors. They were stuck. She heard groaning from inside, someone was alive!

‘Hallo?!’ She tried to peer through the shattered windows. She ran back to find a rock. Hands trembling, she felt around until she found one. Running back to the car, she chose the passenger window and bashed it in. The screen finally fell away revealing a woman clutching a child in her arms. On the driver’s side a man sat unconscious, blood spewing from a gash on his temple. The two passengers’ legs were trapped.

‘Ncncnc...’ said Moagi grimly.

The woman turned to look at her. Dazed she opened her mouth to speak, ‘My baby -’ she paused, coughing up blood. She looked at Moagi with pleading eyes.

Moagi reached in and took the baby from the mother’s arms. ‘There there, nyāna, she’s safe now. Don’t you worry.’

The woman nodded, closed her eyes in resignation. A tear made its treacherous way down her cheek and stopped at the corner of her mouth.

‘Ncncnc...’ Moagi was beside herself. Why like this?

She peered over the woman’s shoulder into the back. The baby’s bag was on the seat. She stuck a hand in, opened the door from the inside, took the bag and strapped it over her shoulder. Just then she saw the headlights of an oncoming car. Quickly she darted back into the bush.

At the top of a small hill she looked on as the vehicle stopped, doors opened and people ran to the scene. They were probably too late. But she hoped. There was always hope. Nevertheless, she had fulfilled her task. The baby slept peacefully in her arms. Turning away she began the long journey back home.

Chapter 1

"For man to recognise his polar being,

he must be fully attentive on all places accessible to

his consciousness. That is he must know himself."

- Boris Mauravieff, Gnosis

Nelspruit, Mpumalanga. February 2016

Nolwazi pulled into the carpark. Nerves getting the better of her, she checked herself in the rearview mirror again and decided she hadn’t done a bad job.

Mille had implored her to make an effort. ‘Please put some mascara on, Noni, you’re wasting your youth looking so plain.’

‘I will try, Mille,’ said Nolwazi.

‘Do you even own mascara, ‘cause you look like it’s something you’ve never come across,’ she had pleaded at their previous lunch meeting.

‘Of course I have makeup, Mille. I just don’t make a habit of having it on every day.’

‘And your hair?’

‘What about my hair?’ she asked boldly. Hair was where she drew the line.

Mille got the tone and gave up, ‘Never mind...’

So here she was. It’s a terrible thing going to a party where the host was the only person you knew, she thought. She checked her hair. It had given her grief the entire afternoon. Going to a hair salon was out of the question, hair-dressers quickly lose patience with all the knots in the thicket that was called Nolwazi’s hair. She herself had lost patience but managed to round it up into a tight bun. It looked decent, that’s all she was going to get out of it.

Just then another car pulled up next to hers. As the engine switched off, the lights inside came on and she made out a profile of a man who appeared to be on the phone. A lively conversation was going.

Nolwazi breathed and put her brave face on. She got out of the car and made her way up the expansive stairway to the entrance of Mille’s house. She was greeted by an usher who told her to wait. ‘Ms Mille likes to welcome all her guests personally, ma’am. Please give me a minute, I’ll go call her.’

It was in fact several minutes. In that time she watched as the man from the other car got out and walked up the stairs. He was now looming over her, quietly imposing his presence on her. After a lengthy silence he said, ‘Nice view.’

Nolwazi turned, the southern hills of Nelspruit rolled away into the distance. ‘Yes it is,’ she said, ‘although it’s even better from the deck on the other side.’

‘Okay.’ He smirked.

‘Not that you wouldn’t know, I’m sure you’ve been here before, I mean I don’t want to be presumptuous or anything... just thought that I should mention that I think it’s even better on the other side...’she hated small talk.

‘Sure,’ he said.

Her anxiety mounted. She really wished Mille would come out already. And thankfully, at long last she did.

‘There you are darling!’ she looked her over, nodding her approval at Nolwazi’s effort at dressing up. A high neck black dress, cut low on her back, one of the remaining remnants of a previous life. A life where she was a high flyer.

‘It will do,’ said Mille as they kissed. Then she turned to the man, ‘And you must be?’ she asked, shaking his hand.

‘Motlalepula, pleased to meet you ma’am.’

Ah, so it is his first, thought Nolwazi.

‘The pleasure is all mine, sir. I’m happy you could join us. Come in. Everyone is here and we’re about to start.’

As she ushered them in she shot Nolwazi a surprised ‘Did you come together?’ look.

Nolwazi shot back, ‘No!’

She led them through the hall and into a big open plan living room with two sitting areas and a dining table that sat eighteen. Two magnificent chandeliers hung pendulously from a gabled ceiling. People were assembled in small groups. Mille motioned for the new arrivals to help themselves to wine on the receiving table. Motlalepula took a glass of red, winked at her and was off. Nolwazi chose a white, hoping it would speedily steel her nerves.

‘Come, I want you to meet Shelly who’ll introduce you to everyone else. There’s a small disaster in the kitchen,’ Mille was saying as she led her to a sofa nearby.

A strikingly beautiful woman saw them coming and stood up. ‘This must be Nolwazi! Hi, I’m Shelly Ndlovu, it’s so good to finally meet you.’ She spoke in a squeaky little voice which fit perfectly into her tiny frame.

‘Pleased to meet you too,’ said Nolwazi as they shook hands.

‘And this is Mrs Glenhoven,’ said Shelly about another equally stunning woman next to her. It was obvious that the two were rivals. They both had equally long weaves that probably cost a small fortune.

‘It’s Sindi, pleased to meet you,’ she said, ‘and that’s my husband over there.’ She was pointing to a white middle-aged man on the other side of the room. ‘I will introduce you later. First you must tell us how you’re finding Nelspruit? Isn’t it ever so boring?!’

Shelly rolled her eyes, ‘Oh it’s the worst when it comes to shopping.’

‘Yes you can never find anything here,’ said Sindi.

‘That’s why Sam and I do all our shopping in Joburg. And we have a place there too. Sam stays there on all his business trips,’ said Shelly.

‘Who’s Sam,’ said Nolwazi.

‘Sam is her husband,’ said Sindi helpfully.

‘Ooh I’m so sorry,’ laughed Shelly. ‘Yes he’s my man,’ as she waved a tiny hand with a finger weighed down by a huge engagement ring. ‘Here he is now. Sam, come meet Mille’s new friend.’

Nolwazi shook hands with the kind Sam, who was short, looked to be in his middle thirties and balding. She found herself pitying the man.

Next she was introduced to the Bratenbachs, an old couple who, according to Sindi and Shelly, owned huge swathes of gum tree plantations in the province, were incredibly wealthy and bored. Mrs Bratenbach owned a small clothing boutique in White River. Nolwazi politely took the lady’s card and promised a visit to her store sometime.

After that she met a man who was introduced as the MEC of Education, a Mr Dlamini. ‘He’s a womaniser of note,’ whispered Shelly. ‘Word is he’s looking for a new wife. Number three can you believe?’ Nolwazi smiled amiably at the man. With a large bald head, a missing front tooth and a career potbelly, it was apparent his first two wives had not married him for his looks.

‘Nice to meet you, Nolwazi. So what brings a beautiful lady such as yourself to this part of the world?’ The man held her hand firmly.

‘The year round perfect weather,’ she smiled and wondered if she would get her hand back.

‘Yes it is very nice here. Maybe we could organise a tour for you. Show you some of the best places on offer.’

‘Yes, thanks. That would be nice.’

For the second time that night Mille’s appearance was a welcomed relief. ‘All right, everyone. Find your places at the table. Dinner is ready to be served.’

Ambient music accompanied the meal, with easy sometimes lively conversation among the guests.

Nolwazi had accepted the invitation purely because she needed to meet people. She’s been in this town for a few months now, and figured it was time she ventured out a bit. So she made an effort to be personable. She was seated between Mrs Bratenbach and Shelly. The MEC, who kept making eyes at her, sat across from her. Motlalepula sat towards the end of the table with his plus one, a fellow who Nolwazi hadn’t been introduced to. Mille sat at the head of the table, letting the conversation flow.

‘How are the land grabs going, Dlamini?’ said Mr Bratenbach to the MEC.

‘Now now, Frans. You know that’s not government policy, yet,’ said the MEC, to general amusement.

‘Ya well, it will be a last ditch attempt at you people’s hold on power.’

‘Trust me, Frans, if land grabs were initiated you will be the first one out!’ the MEC gave a belly laugh while Frans wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously. He lived in fear of such an eventuality.

‘I want to hear from this beautiful lady here,’ said the MEC. He was looking at Nolwazi in a suggestive way. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’

Nolwazi was caught off guard and nearly choked on her food. She swallowed and coughed to clear her throat. ‘Just absorbing the sights and sounds, and good food,’ she said uncomfortably.

‘So how are you finding the lowveld, deary?’ asked Mrs Bratenbach.

‘I love it. So many places out in nature where one can just sit and quietly enjoy a glass of wine,’ replied Nolwazi.

‘What brought you to our part of the country then?’ asked someone she would later learn was Nadia Ebrahim, one half of a couple who owned flourishing car dealerships in Nelspruit.

‘I teach African History and Anthropological Studies at the university.’

‘Ah, an academic!’ said the MEC.

‘Why at UM, it’s still new. Have they gotten their act together?’ said Nadia.

‘Well, after I completed my masters at Wits I looked around for something new and different. I got excited about UM’s African studies program so I came to have a look. I figured since it’s still new I would have some freedom regarding the curriculum. Plus I needed fresh air, Joburg was getting a bit stifling.’ She wished the conversation would move on from her already. Casting a nervous glance around the table, she caught Motlalepula’s eye. He was stifling a laugh, seemingly enjoying her discomfort. On the other end, Mille’s face was like thunder, clearly displeased with Nolwazi’s responses.

‘I find teaching so dull,’ said Sindi, hopefully for the sake of needing something to add to the topic.

‘Well, it has its days,’ said Nolwazi. ‘I don’t know about dull, at least not for me.’

‘Hah! Dull must be those students, eh?’ Take them in as complete dullards, polish them up and get them ready to join the adult world.’ Glenhoven spoke in an exaggerated manner. It was an obvious attempt to rescue his wife’s blonde statement.

‘As anthropologists? The only thing they’d be good at is keeping their noses in history books,’ said a charged Bratenbach. ‘The country doesn’t need anthropologists. We need more engineers. Like Sam here. And scientists! What are we going to do with more anthropologists?’ At which point he considered present company and said, ‘No offence to you, girly.’

‘None taken.’ Nolwazi was only glad that she didn’t have to do the talking.

‘I think we could do with more historians. People who would be brave enough to tell the true South African history.’ This came from Motlalepula. The table went silent. He was looking straight at Nolwazi except with an air of daring anyone to counter his comment. Nolwazi’s heart leapt. The moment lasted too long for comfort.

Then Mille said, ‘How about dessert?!’

***

Nolwazi put down her glass of wine, she was hardly getting a word in. Then again she wasn’t sure she wanted to. After dinner people had gathered into groups around the room. She was on the couch with Shelly and Sindi whose topic of conversation amounted to nothing more than shoes, bags and men. Such was the age of excess: marrying for money, buying hair, being upwardly mobile, getting ahead. Johannesburg sure does cast a long shadow, thought Nolwazi.

‘So are you dating anyone, Nolwazi?’ asked Sindi.

‘No, er, I’m single and unattached,’ replied Nolwazi.

‘Ooh, wouldn’t it be exciting if we were to fix her up, Sindi? Sam has plenty of friends who are moneyed -’

‘Yes, a yummy Swati hunk, hey,’ giggled Sindi.

Nolwazi’s eyes shot up just in time to catch Mille’s, who thankfully came over.

‘I’m glad you girls are getting along. Shelly does all my events PR in the province. She can spread word about your book, Noni, maybe organise book signings for you.’ Mille’s tone was direct.

‘What? You didn’t tell us you are an author,’ said Shelly

‘This one is ever so modest’, complained Mille. ‘You must sell yourself, Noni darling! That’s what tonight is all about. Now I want you to mingle, get to know people. Tell them what you really do. You girls come with me, we’re discussing next month’s food festival in the kitchen.’

And they were off, leaving Nolwazi to fend for herself. She cast a glance around the room. People were standing in groups, drinking, laughing. The wine helped put her at ease somewhat, though not enough to make rosy the prospect of a one on one chat with the MEC, who had been tossing her the odd furtive glance. He had been waiting for the opportunity to amble closer. Thinking quickly she sought for an exit.

Outside on the veranda the night air was warm and soothing. The lowveld was a beauty of a place with fragrant summer nights. This evening was particularly pleasing to the senses, and a brilliant moon was rising in the eastern mountains into a clear sky. One could not hope for better weather to host a dinner party.

Leaning over the balustrade she breathed in deeply and took in the bright glow of the moon. Wrapping her shoulders with her scarf, she surveyed the pool and surrounding designer garden spanning the length of Mille’s spacious backyard.

Mille had done well for herself. Never married, she had