Why didn’t our family albums contain images of Elisa? Why had we kept no records or comprehensive history of what happened to our ancestors? Were we so weak a lineage that we preferred to bury our heads in the sand rather than learn from past mistakes and fight?
Who are we?
Dropping my hands, I breathed deeply. “What is her image doing on your wall?”
“To remind me that history isn’t in the past.”
I turned to face her. “What do you mean?”
Bonnie’s hazel gaze was sharp and cruel. “I mean history repeats itself. You only have to look through generations of photographs to see the same person over and over again. It skips a few bloodlines; cheekbones are different, eye colours change, bodies evolve. But then along comes an offspring who defies logic. Neither looking like their current parents, or taking on the traits of evolution. Oh, no. Out pops an exact imposter of someone who lived over a century ago.”
She looked me up and down, her nose wrinkling. “I don’t believe in reincarnation, but I do believe in anomalies, and you, my child are the exact image of Elisa, and I fear the exact temperament, too.”
A chill darted down my spine. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.” My eyes returned to the image. She looked fierce but content—resigned but strong.
She chuckled. “It is if you know the history.”
Wrapping her seized fingers around my elbow, she pushed me onward, following a timeline of photos of Elisa and Jethro’s great, great grandfather.
Seeing Jethro’s doppelganger in images side by side with Elisa sent goosebumps scattering over my skin. “What was his name?”
“Owen.” She paused by a particular one of Elisa and Owen staring sternly into the camera, spring buds on rose bushes and apple blossoms in the orchard behind them. They both looked distraught, trapped,afraid. “Owen ‘Harrier’ Hawk.”
Did you have the same condition Jethro has, Owen? Were you the first to hate your family? Why didn’t you do anything to change your future?
Bonnie let me go. “I could rattle off tales and incidents of what befell those two, but I’ll let the images speak for themselves. After all, what is the common phrase? A picture tells a thousand words?” She laughed softly as I repelled away from her, drinking in image after image.
The copper and coffee tones led me from one end of the room to the other, following a wretched timeline of truth.
Bonnie was right. A picture did say a thousand words, and seeing it captured forever, imprisoned and immortalized, sank my heart further into despair.
Elisa slowly changed in each one.
I gasped as I stumbled onto the First Debt. An ochre image where blood wasn’t red but burnt bronze, trickling from lash marks on Elisa’s creamy back.
It was as if time played a horrible joke, slapping me with the knowledge that my life was on repeat—my very existence following in the footsteps of another, no matter how unique I felt.
Just like when Jethro came to collect me.
That night in Milan when I’d found out my life was never mine. That Jethro was just as indebted as me. That we were both prisoners of a tangled predetermined fate.
My limbs quaked as I moved to the next.
The tarnished image showed Owen, standing with the First Debt whip in his hand, a tortured expression on his face. He was more than just Jethro's ancestor—he could’ve been his identical twin. Seeing another man look so conflicted brought tears to my eyes. He tried to hide it, but regret and connection blazed through the grainy picture.
We weren’t the only ones to fall in love.
Owen and Elisa had defied the Weaver-Hawk boundary and fallen hard.
Photo after photo.
Trial after trial.
Their love deepened and blossomed, only to be slowly hacked away as time went on.
The Second Debt and the ducking stool. Elisa dangled on the same chair I’d been strapped to, the black lake glittering below her.
The Third Debt in the gaming den. Owen fisted crumpled playing cards,his mouth tight and unyielding, eyes begging for a reprieve.
