Waking the Witch
Contents
Title Page
Books by Rachel Burge
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Books by Rachel Burge
The Twisted Tree
The Crooked Mask
Waking the Witch
For my mum, Leoni
1
I love it when a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis and unfurls its tiny, shrivelled wings. It’s freeing – the idea that whatever your problems, you can transcend them: wake up one day and find that you’ve changed into a different creature, grown wings and can fly away. Everyone gets excited about the miracle of nature, the power of transformation. At the same time, no one asks what the caterpillar had to sacrifice to achieve those wings. But then everyone loves the Disney version, don’t they? We all want to see the ugly grub become a thing of beauty. We all want the fairy tale.
In the real world, orphans go unadopted and little girls who are abandoned by their mothers are raised by wolves, only to be eaten by them. But no one wants to hear that. People aren’t interested in the cruel and messy truth, so I don’t tell them about me – the same way I don’t tell them what really happens to the caterpillar.
It’s Friday morning and I’m sitting on the specimen room floor at work, wedged between two cardboard boxes (there’s at least one advantage to being small), and hoping my jerk of a boss doesn’t find me. Before me is a row of wooden display cases containing various chrysalides, and in my hand is my phone. I glare at it, as if that might somehow shame it into ringing. It doesn’t. Eventually the screen dims and somewhere in my heart a light goes out.
Lifting the locket from my neck, I open the tiny, hinged door and take out the slip of folded paper as I’ve done a thousand times before.
I’m so sorry. I tried to keep you safe, but I see now that I can’t. They won’t stop until they have you, but I can’t let that happen. Be strong, little one, trust no one, and know that
Like me, the scribbled note was abandoned, a half-finished story containing more questions than answers. I stare at the words until they become as blurred and indecipherable as their meaning. Who was my mother keeping me safe from? What was bad enough to make her dump her baby at a motorway service station? I’m named after the cleaner who found me – Ivy. But what name did my mum give me? Where were the rest of my family? I have so many questions, but it always comes down to a single word beating inside me like a second heart. Why?