Waking the Witch: a darkly spellbinding tale of female empowerment - Softcover

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information, and last week someone actually replied. The man
said he was looking for his brother when he came across my
photo– he has a memory for faces and I looked like a woman
he’d met on holiday once. She lived at the lighthouse on Bardsey
Island, off the west coast of Wales, and he saw her go to the
mainland with her baby and then come back alone. He seemed
so certain and the dates checked out, and somehow I just have
this feeling.
Getting to Bardsey isn’t easy– a bus, two trains and a boat
crossing– so I decided to send her a letter with my number.
That was seven days ago. From what I’ve read online the island
is tiny and barely populated so it’s not going to have the best
postal service, but even if she’s moved surelysomeonewould
have received it. I fiddle with the silver stud in my nose and
sigh. One thing’s for certain, I can’t stay in here. My boss will
notice I’m missing and I’m the only assistant in work as Tom
is late again, which means I have to give this morning’s talk.
I crawl out from my hiding place then wrap my arms around
a display case which is almost as big as me. There are plenty
of smaller ones, but I haven’t done three years of martial arts
training to take the easy option. With a grunt of exertion, I
lift the case and shove the door open with my foot. I love
my job– I enjoy seeing the customers’ excited faces when a
butterfly lands on them and I like teaching them about the
different species we have at the centre. I just need to pretend
it’s an ordinary day at work. You know, forget that my entire
life could be about to change with a single phone call.
As I enter the glass butterfly house, I’m greeted by the
familiar sound of wet hissing from the vents, a constant tic-tic
and fizzling hum of artificial jungle. It’s always warm and humid,
but the air feels stifling today. Beneath the scent of nectar is
a cloying smell of overripe fruit and rotting vegetation and
something I can’t quite place: a stench of decay that doesn’t
belong here. It sits on my lungs and makes it hard to breathe.
Tightening my grip on the case, I head to the display area
on the far side of the room. October half-term is one of our
busiest times and the walkways are full of visitors. They wander
amongst the glossy-leaved plants and tropical orange flowers,
pausing every now and then to point at a flash of colour flitting
about their heads. In other words, not looking where they’re
going.
‘Excuse me, coming through!’ I can’t see around the case,
so I have to shout and hope that people move out of the way.
‘You’ve got your hands full there, Ivy. Can’t you get young
Tom to help?’
‘Hey, Dot. How are you?’ I recognise her voice and slow
down to let her catch up.
It’s mostly families that visit, but in winter we get older
people who come for the free heating. Dot is one of my