A darkly spellbinding tale of female empowerment steeped in Welsh mythology and Arthurian legend. 'I tried to keep you safe, but I see now that I can't. They won't stop until they have you . . .' When Ivy's search for her mother draws her to a remote Welsh isle, she uncovers a dark secret about her past. An ancient and corrupt power is stalking Ivy, and her only chance of survival is to look deep within herself. For not every story in legend is true, and some evils are not what they seem. An unputdownable novel steeped in Welsh mythology and Arthurian legend. Waking the Witch honestly feels like Rachel Burge reached into my head and found the things I wanted to read. Maybe I'm used to Arthurian retellings that more often explore the Knights and King Arthur, so I was pleasantly surprised that this explored the women's side of the story. - Bryony, The Indecisive Readers - Instagram Wow. Just wow. Absolutely fantastic read from start to finish. On my top Author list - can literally not fault the writing or the story one bit. - Katie, Readersroost "A compellingly fresh and spooky take on an age-old story."— Kirkus Reviews  Rachel Burge works as a freelance feature writer and has written for a variety of websites, including BBC Worldwide, Cosmo and MTV. She lives in East Sussex with her partner and son. She is on Twitter (@RachelABurge), Facebook (RachelBurge) and Instagram (rachelburgewriter) and Pinterest (burge0709). Her website is rachelburge.co.uk. 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? I fold the paper back inside and then tuck the brass locket into my shirt, my fingers briefly tracing the raised butterfly design. I guess it’s fitting that I ended up working at a butterfly zoo, but then I’ve always loved the tiny creatures. The locket is all I have of my mum, so to me butterflies are an emblem of hope, a sign that one day I’ll find her. And now maybe I have. I’ve spent years posting on missing person sites asking for 3 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 cer