I Belong to the Earth (Unveiled Book 1)

by J. A. Ironside

  I hadn't understood half of what Mrs Cranford had said earlier that morning but something niggled at me. Something I needed to remember. It all seemed small and dim as though years had passed. The palms of my hands were stinging and my hip throbbed where I had hit it on the sink. My slow, foggy brain was adding up discomforts and drawing conclusions. I was sprawled, in the dark, on the cold stone flags of the kitchen floor. My mouth was watering like I was about to throw up. The thought of my aching abdomen clenching in a spew attack, drew a groan out of me. I forced myself to sit up, swaying as small, white stars popped and flashed in the darkness behind my eyelids. I hurt all over. There wasn't a hope in hell of being able to stand up, let alone getting to my room.

  Whatever crossfire I'd just been caught in had left me limp and watery. One last thought sparked before I blacked out again. Sweet tea. Mrs Cranford made me drink sweet tea when I felt nauseous by the grave earlier. Filling the kettle was beyond me but maybe there was something in one of the cupboards I could use. I crawled to cupboard next to the sink. Searching by touch, I shifted bags of rice and pasta and various tins out of the way. My hand closed on a screw top jar. I brought it closer to my face and unscrewed the lid.

  Honey. Perfect. No spoon. The cutlery drawer was too far away and everything was turning grey at the edges again. I dipped into the jar with frozen fingers and scooped honey straight into my mouth. It spread, summery sweet, over my tongue and soothed my throat. Strength trickled back into my limbs. Before I knew it I'd eaten almost half the jar. I twisted the lid back on and shoved it towards the back of the cupboard.

  My legs were rubbery but I could stand now. I washed my sticky hands in the sink then chugged down a glass of water. Better. Not as shaky and cold. I glanced toward the moor. It was too dark to make out anything except the edges of the apple trees in the garden. It didn't matter. I felt greedy eyes trained on the house. I remembered the rage on the man's face - the man who had raised his fist - and shivered. I wouldn't feel safe until I was back in my room.

  I made decrepit progress up the stairs. The cold spot was a point of frosty light. I recoiled and inched past. I'd had enough for tonight. Forever in fact. Who were all these people? Who was Helen? What did it all mean? I wished I was seeing Mrs Cranford sooner. Maybe she was eccentric but she was the only one who seemed to know anything. Or maybe not. I remembered the man in the village shop. What if the whole village was in on it?

  Okay, now I was beyond paranoid. He was probably talking about something else. Coincidence. Wasn't that most likely? Even Amy thought there might be rational explanations for some of it. But then, I didn't tell Amy everything so she didn't have all the facts. If she had, would she still be telling me to give Haze a chance? Or was it better not to involve her further? I felt a stab of resentment that I didn't have the sort of dad that I could tell things to. Someone who would take us all away because I asked, no matter how mental the reason sounded. Before it was too late.

  Cold wind blew through the open window of my attic room. The book lay open on the desk. I had run out of fear. All I could summon up was exasperation. I slammed the book onto the shelf. I didn't even care what it had to do with the cold girl or the watcher on the moor, or the man in the kitchen, anymore. I couldn't read it anyway, so as clues went it was pretty useless. I caught a faint whiff of a familiar scent. It was more than my tired brain was capable of processing. But I knew it. Rosemary. Violets.

  I grabbed the coat hanger and hooked the window latch close enough to grab. There was nothing outside. I swept the curtains closed again. I slouched on the bed and lay glaring at the row of leather bound classics on the top shelf. I didn't want to turn out the light on the nightstand. It struck me then with awful irony. Mum gave me reading, like a gift. Mum was the one who took it away. Why? Why, why, why?! I screamed into my pillow, hitting it with my fists. Why Mum why? Grace's right. Why did you leave her? Why did you try to take us with you? Why did you completely screw up my life?

  If I could only cry…The tears built up and built up inside me like the words I couldn't get out. The whole lot boiled into a poisonous witch's brew of helplessness and rage. I forced myself to unclench my fists and lie back. And abruptly fell asleep.