Free The Godforsaken Daughter by Christina McKenna

find, but for her own safety. Would the worm-eaten flooring be able to sustain her extra weight? She could not remember the last time she’d been up there, but was sure it must have been about a decade before, when she was quite a few pounds lighter than she was now. Usually it was her father who visited the attic to store things.
    The narrow door cried out as she pushed it open—as if protesting her intrusion—and she found herself in a hot, musty space, which smelled of mold and rancid apples. Long ago, her father used to make cider, and would store the fermentation buckets here in the cool darkness. Her eyes welled up when she spotted two of the big jars, one still unopened, yeast encrusting the sealed lid, sitting just inside the door. How long had it sat there? The cider he’d never got to drink.
    When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that unearthing the case was not going to be such an easy task. Her father had been a hoarder, the opposite of her improvident mother—who was always wanting new things. There had been many arguments between the pair when Ruby was growing up. So, to keep the peace, their compromise had been the way station that was the attic.
    The place was crammed: a steamer trunk belonging to Great-Aunt Agatha, which had crossed the Atlantic several times, a baby’s pram filled with toys and stuffed animals, a cane chair and an old green rocker with a stand of corner shelves jammed on top. These items commanded the most space. Boxes in various stages of ruin proliferated—there must have been at least twenty—containing schoolbooks, magazines, vinyl records, and bundles of old newspapers. Scattered here and there were picture frames, lamps, vases, plastic flowers, coat hangers, and a large mirror that used to hang in the living room when Ruby was a child. Pocked now, with many black age spots, it was suitable only for the attic, where throwing ba ck reflections was as redundant as the rest of the long-retired bric- a-brac.
    She caught sight of a small red suitcase, faded to pink from sixteen summers under the skylight. It was the one she’d carried to Donegal for that ill-fated stint in the Queens Arms. Her only time away from home. Her only suitcase. She’d put it up there as soon as she’d returned home, not wanting any cringing reminders of Mr. Ryan and her failure as a waitress. Out of curiosity, she went over now, hunkered down, and snapped opened the hasps.
    There was nothing in it apart from a hairgrip and a white metal badge with her name crookedly written in black marker. At the sight of the badge her heart sank. How unhappy she’d been back then! Thrust out into the big, cruel world—a lamb among wolves. She slammed the lid back down. Stood up and pushed the skylight free, needing air.
    “T HE CASE ! Y OU CAME HERE FOR THE CASE. L OOK BEHIND YOU ! ”
    She jumped. The voice. It was the same one from her dream, but this time clearer and more insistent.
    Ruby began to sweat; she wanted to flee the attic but instead found herself turning round, as instructed, and looking above the door.
    There, perched on a shelf, was the object of her mission: an ancient, brown case studded with tarnished rivets.
    Grasping the leather handle, she eased it down, shutting her eyes against a dust cloud of many vintages. The case, though small, was unusually heavy, and she could see why. It was made of wood with inlays of what looked like snakeskin, on top and along the sides. She found an empty place on the floor beneath the skylight and set it down.
    On the front was the image her mother had so scorned: a line drawing of a naked woman with her arms raised, hands joined above her head. Ruby did not find the image offensive. If anything, it reminded her of a pair of closed scissors. On a nameplate underneath she could just about make out the word Revelation. Was it the name of the maker, or an indication of what she might find inside?
    The case did not have two locks, as she’d expected, but one