I Belong to the Earth (Unveiled Book 1) by J. A. Ironside

  Dad had told me that my bedroom was on the third floor. He hadn’t mentioned that it was the attic. The floorboards creaked as I put down the box of books and flopped on the bare mattress of my bed. My stomach churned. Cold dread and boiling rage. And no way of saying anything. I pressed the heels of my hands hard against my eyes, as if I could push all the bad feelings back. Squash them in. Compress myself back into the state of numb calm I'd lived in since Mum's death. It was getting harder and that worried me.

  I was behaving like a child. I knew that. Being freaked out by the house and Grace’s nastiness weren’t any excuse. I was here now, like it or not. Sulking would only make it worse. I opened my eyes and glanced round. To my intense surprise I loved my new room. It was warm and safe, which was weird given my gut reaction to the house. Something floral and sweet mixed with the faint whiff of dust in the still air. A scent that was familiar somehow. Dark wooden beams divided the plaster of the low sloping ceiling on one side. There were thick oak shelves on the wall opposite my bed. I might unpack my books, then I’ be able to torture myself on a regular basis by staring at the overstuffed shelves since I couldn't read anymore. I stumbled across the uneven floor. There were more boxes to collect.

  Another three trips up and down the stairs—keeping left on the way up and right on the way down— and I'd finally brought up all my stuff. It was a bit crowded with my Borsendorf upright, my violin and sheaves of sheet music but I felt better with my instruments and the sealed boxes of books around me.

  I liked the deep window seat, with its lead-pane latticed window, best. A faint mildewy smell wafted from the elderly brocade cushion when I knelt on it. The window overlooked the stunted, ancient apple trees at the back of the vicarage.

  Strange place to plant an orchard.

  Beyond the vicarage garden, the moor stretched away to a darkening horizon. The same, unreasonable tug of vertigo I’d felt the first time I saw the moor, sent me spinning away from the window gasping. The earth spun beneath my feet. It should have been a stunning view; it was a stunning view. It was also wrong. Inexplicable and wrong. I swallowed hard against the bile in my throat and waited for the room to stop swinging around me. If I could only shake the feeling of…of well doom sounded a bit melodramatic but…

  Breathe.

  It was ridiculous to be frightened of the moor.

  Or a cold spot on the stairs.

  Silence.

  Too still. Too quiet. I rummaged in a crate and came up with a battered CD player and a handful of CDs. Hitting play on a CD of Vivaldi's Four Seasons made me feel a bit less jittery.

  Stalling. You're stalling. Coward.

  The empty shelves felt like an accusation. Naked and exposed without my books on them. It couldn’t hurt that much to unpack my books, could it? Since the Accident I hadn't been able to read at all. The specialists had thrown around words like 'ataxia' and 'brain damage'. It might get better. In time.

  Right after the Accident I hadn't cared. Didn't even want to look at a book. That was over eight months ago. I’d made no progress. I couldn't speak. Not properly anyway. And now this; imprisoned in a nothing-place of a village, in a house that felt like it was swallowing me every time I walked through the front door, with a father who couldn't bear the sight of me and Grace, who regarded me as if I was some sort of slime producing invertebrate.

  I didn’t believe in past lives but ending up as the broken thing I was now, had me reassessing the theory. Making me wonder what I could have possibly done wrong in a previous life to deserve this. Classic survivors’ guilt, mixed with the need to assume control over uncontrollable events. I could practically hear my therapist’s voice in my head. But how else were you meant to make sense of it though? Because ‘bad things happen’ just isn’t good enough as an explanation. Being unable to read just confirmed my theory. When your mother dies and your whole world goes to hell, where else can you find solace except in a book?

  I clenched my jaw and opened the box. Mum and I had worked through around half of her leather-bound classics. I even knew which book was supposed to have been next. I weighed it in my hand. Mum had said I was old enough to understand the layers of meaning in this one now. Then she'd died.

  The aching, hollow feeling rose like a tide. It was like swimming in a dark lake; suddenly you're out of your depth. The water drags you down and pours into your lungs. But you don't want to fight. Don't want to breathe. Because if you do, then you're alive. And living hurts.

  I blinked and slammed the book onto the shelf. My eyes burned but there were no tears. There never were anymore, at least not while I was awake. Not that crying would help. Mum wasn't coming back.

  "Emlynn?" Amy stood in the doorway, an uncertain expression on her face. "You ok? You're really pale."

  "F-fine. Thinking." I gave her a weak smile. Amy was the only person not embarrassed by my stammer. She was also the only other person there when the accident happened. So she understood, at least partly. I could have lost her as well. Then I really would have been alone.

  Amy smiled back, reassured. "It’s cosy in here." She gave my room a critical once over. "I thought with this dark little attic…and Dad is so unreasonable…but it feels like home."

  I didn't need to reply. I loved that about Amy.

  Her gaze lit on the top shelf. "Mum's books. You did keep them." She said in delight.

  "O-of kuh course." I forced another smile.

  "I'm sorry Emlynn. That was really tactless of me."

  "Nuh not your f-fault."

  Amy's delicate features contracted in a pained expression. "Why did she do it, Em?" Her eyes were over-bright. For once she actually sounded younger than thirteen, rather than much older.

  I shrugged and held my arms open. She flung herself at me in a blind hug, her face buried in my shoulder. We stood in the fading light like two survivors on a life raft.

  How could we ever begin to answer the question we lugged around like the chains of Marley's ghost? If we had an answer, would it make any difference? We were stuck here now. Everything had changed. I missed Mum so much. I really did. And what good did it do to be angry…but, oh God, I hated her too. How could she...? How dare she leave us?

  The question gnawed away at me, constant and silent.

  Why did our mother try to kill us?