By the time I made it home from school, the twinges in my neck and shoulder had become full blown cramps. My backpack went by the door, there was no way I was lugging it up stairs as I didn't intend to open it again tonight.

Rubbing the sore spots, I walked down the first floor hallway. Portraits lined the walls- starting with paintings and ending with photographs. I'd been so busy I had only given them quick glances as I set up the house.

Fiona and Ian were first, sitting stiff and regal with their newborn child in her arms. In the next was a portrait of the child, Jamie, all grown up and sitting next to a woman with beautiful hair of gold. Thinking of my father's suggestion that Jamie might not be Ian's, I stood on my tiptoes and peered at his face.

There was so much of his mother in him, it was hard to tell. Kind brown eyes, and hair so dark it might've been black, if not for the streaks of auburn. His jaw was strong and square, where Fiona's was a gentle point to the end of her heart shaped face. I compared it to Ian's and found them similar, but not enough to determine paternity.

Jamie's bride was seated beside him, gripping his hands and looking up at him in adoration. Her full, champagne skirts spilled across the wooden floor, and purple flowers were woven through her hair. Could this be the woman who washed up on shore? Dad had never indicated whether or not they'd married, but these two people had either truly loved one another or the painter had taken great artistic license.

I stopped at the next picture, hoping to find a family portrait of Jamie with his children, but instead, I was greeted by his wife, somber faced, sitting beside another man, this one tall and fair, with his father's eyes. A son then, but where was Jamie? Had he died young like so many back then had?

Moving on, the pattern repeated. A wedding portrait, followed by a family portrait. More often than not, the father was missing, his life ended too soon. A few depicted a son alone. But the most haunting thing of all, especially in the photographs where no creative liberties were taken, was the shadow of sadness in every eye, especially the mother's.

The last photo was of my grandfather and father. It looked to have been taken about twenty years ago, putting my dad at around seventeen. He was a carbon copy of Ennis, and they both favored their forefather, Jamie. I traced my finger around their eyes, searching for the spark of compassion that had burned so brightly in those first two portraits, only to find that it had finally burned out, to be replaced by a strange, unwavering determination that made the hairs on my arm stand straight up.

"What are you doing?"

Spooked by my father's sudden appearance, I dropped my hands behind me as though touching the photos was off limits. "Looking for you, actually. Just got home from school."

"I heard the door open about ten minutes ago." He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and threw it over his shoulder. "What have you been up to since then?"

I gestured at the photos, shrugging as I did so. "Just inspecting the Halloran ancestors."

He moved through the living room, a wistful smile on his lips as he looked at the photo I'd ended on. "That was right after mum died. We moved to the states about six months later."

"I wish I could've met her. Granda told the best stories about her."

"He was a storyteller, for sure."

"Dad," I said, stopping him as he walked away, "you told me about Jamie finding the woman washed up on shore. Is that her in the portrait?"

His back was to me, but through the layers of his t-shirt, I could see his muscles tauten. Slowly, he turned back and passed by me in the corridor, coming to rest in front of the picture of Jamie and his wife. His hands went to both sides of the painting, and he examined it for a long time before speaking.

"This is Niamh. She used to spend the summers with the Hallorans, and it was always meant for her to marry Jamie. But Jamie believed himself to be in love with Lorelei, the woman he found. Lorelei became pregnant, and she gave birth to a daughter."

"Where is the daughter?" I checked the photos again, to make sure I hadn't missed a girl child. But no, there were just sons, after sons, after sons born to the Hallorans. No wonder everyone had expressed such surprise over me being a girl.

"Ian was not pleased. If Niamh's family discovered Jamie's indiscretions, they would terminate the betrothal, and with it would go a lot of much needed money. Building this place, starting everything from scratch, had drained his inheritance. Jamie had to marry well. So, he wrote to his sister who was childless and asked her to take the child. Cordelia was her name."

A knot formed in my stomach. "They took Lorelei's baby from her?"

He lowered his head, leaving his hands mounted on the wall. "Ian was a hard man. He wanted to cast Lorelei out, even suggested having her arrested for being a whoore. Fiona was sweet and unwilling to watch the girl take the full blame, and she talked Ian into allowing her to stay. He would only allow it on the condition that she marry another, and he sold her off to a stable hand."

"That's terrible. Dad, Jamie was just as at fault. Why didn't he fight this?"

My father's splayed fingers curled into a fist, and he lifted his head and held my gaze. "He was told Cordelia died. No one knew the truth about the babe until much later. Ian told him that Lorelei had married another."

I sagged against the wall, mind reeling. How tragic to have believed you had such happiness in your grasp, only to have it dissolve so quickly. He believed his daughter died and that his love betrayed him.

"So he just married Niamh? What happened afterwards?"

"Niamh was sent for per Jamie's request. When she arrived, Jamie told his father it was like awakening from a nightmare. She had grown into a lovely woman, and she brought light to his darkness. People say he was smitten with her, and told her the truth of what had happened with Lorelei. She said she loved him still. But the day this portrait was painted, Jamie discovered his father's treachery."

I found myself not breathing, so intent was I on hearing what came next. "Go on."

"He was angry. Niamh told him to go to her, but he said that he knew now that what he felt for Lorelei was an infatuation. He loved Niamh more and wanted to be with her. They were married two days later. Jamie was murdered in their wedding bed."

"What?" I screeched, not all expecting that turn. Dad had straightened now, but he continued to stare at Jamie and Niamh. With a roar, he ripped the painting from the wall and tossed it into the foyer. "Whoa, Dad. Why did you do that?"

Panting, he stormed passed me, snapping the towel off his shoulder. I skirted passed the couch and followed him into the kitchen. It was oversized, with brick walls and modern appliances. He twisted the knob on the stove, the fire whooshing up as he slammed a pot onto the eye.

"Dad, I'm not really getting why you're freaking out."

"Just promise me, this," he said, whipping around to face me, "whatever you do in life, you treat people right. Don't play with their hearts."

"Do you think Jamie was wrong to move on?"

"I think he found a prettier face, and he broke Lorelei's heart."

"Did Lorelei kill Jamie?"

Onions and garlic went into the pot, the pungent smell filling the kitchen as he stirred. "Her husband wasn't seen again after he married her. When they went to question her about Jamie, she was gone, but they found his body. He'd been dead for sometime."

"Oh god." I dragged a barstool over to the counter, the simple task reminding me of my injuries. My hand flew up to my forehead, checking to make sure my hair was covering the scrapes. "Just cause he broke her heart, it doesn't mean he deserved to die."

"Maybe not," Dad said, "but there were consequences. A son grew up without his father."

"So did a daughter. But none of that explains why it bothers you so much. It was three hundred years ago."

He set the spoon down and dropped in handfuls of italian sausage, not speaking again until the mean was spitting grease. "You'll find that things linger on the Island. Stories don't die. Consequences are bigger." The flame flickered and grew small as he turned down the heat. He pressed a kiss against my forehead, the corners of his lips just catching the edge of a bruise. "Don't ever forget that."

Later, I lay awake long past the hour sleep usually found me. A second night of my mind wandering through dark thoughts. It didn't surprise me that Granda had never shared this story. It was so bleak and tragic, what person would want to tell a small child of such events, but despite my father's explanation for his behavior, I still didn't grasp what made him hate Jamie so.

After tossing and turning for an hour, I threw back the covers and climbed the stairs to my tower. My body ached, and as the steam from the heated pool struck me, I thought soaking might ease the pain and help me sleep.

The moonlight pouring in through the glass made me feel exposed, despite being so high up that no one would be able to see me. I pulled off my pajamas, covering my naked form until I submerged in the bath, but once I was in the water, all worries ceased as every ache and pain dissolved immediately.

Cupping my hands, I poured water over my head and felt the cuts on my face and shoulder tingle at once. I rotated my arm, feeling as if I'd never fallen. Curious, I leaned forward, sniffing the liquid and then sticking out my tongue.

"Bleh," I gagged. Salty- almost saltier than the ocean. That explained the tingles, but it didn't explain why I felt so renewed.

I swam to the side of the pool and rested my arms on the ledge. With the windows going all the way down to the floor, my view was unobstructed, and the shine from the heavens diluted the darkness enough that I could make out the treetops swaying in a strong wind. Beyond that, the cliffs rising above ShipWreck cove blinked in and out of view as lightning flashed across the sea. I wondered if it was a storm that would push inwards, covering the island in another blanket of gray for days, or if it was like heat lightning in the south, giving me a glimpse of a distant disturbance not meant for our shores.

I dropped my head on my arms and moved my gaze inside, traveling over the mosaic tiles on the floor and the lavish molding around the ceiling. Who had this room been built for? My father might know, his knowledge of the family history had oddly detailed, and I wondered if journals might have been kept. Those would be fascinating to read.

With a sigh, I climbed out of the pool, my eyes beginning to feel heavy. The warm water had worked its magic- so well I feared if I didn't get out now, I would fall asleep where I was floating. All of the shyness which had plagued me when undressing earlier was gone, and I couldn't help but admire the long lines of my body's reflection in the windows. It was rare that I felt this comfortable in my skin- my hips more shapely than fashionable, my thighs and backside full- but right now I felt radiant. Like a Greek statue, my curves worshiped by the effulgence of the moon.

I twisted the moisture out of my hair and wished I could bottle this strange confidence. It wasn't that I was hard on myself, at least not much more than any other teenage girl, but it was as if the pool had erased my insecurities away along with the aches and pains.

"You're delirious," I said, my voice echoing in the chamber. "Sleep deprived and disoriented from being in a new place."

As I stooped to grab my discarded clothing, an odd shimmer stuck on the stone captured my attention. Squatting, I scraped at the spot with my nail, the glittery flake loosening with just a little pressure. The piece was about the size of a dime, and its iridescent sheen glinted as I lifted it into the light, making me gasp at its familiarity.

I dropped it into my palm, making sure not to bend it, afraid it was so dry it might break. There was no doubt in my mind that it was a collection of the same type of scale I was supposed to identify for extra credit. The curve and the shape was the same, and vividness of the colors had not faded with time. Who knew how long it had been in this room? Nearly twenty years had passed since the house had been occupied.

But as I walked down the stairs, one hand holding onto the railing and the other the scale, a bigger question loomed in my mind. How did it get up there in the first place?