'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.
'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.
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Overview
'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.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781471411083 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Bonnier Books UK |
| Publication date: | 11/07/2023 |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.08(w) x 7.80(h) x 0.70(d) |
| Age Range: | 14 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
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
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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
favourites. She wears an immaculate red wig with matching
lipstick and hates wearing ugly shoes, but they help with her
bunions. She usually brings a romance novel and will read it
while eating pick ’n’ mix. I once made the mistake of accepting
a jelly baby and then had to listen as she spent ten minutes
describing a sex scene in alarming detail.
She ambles alongside me and whispers, ‘Shame to let a
strapping lad like that go to waste. He’s a handsome specimen.
If I was fifty years younger, I’d rip his clothes off and–’
‘Yeah, thanks, Dot. I’ll keep it in mind.’
The truth is that Tom would be more than happy to help
me, but I don’t intend to give him the satisfaction. We’re the
same age and started working here around the same time, about
ten months ago, and we have this rivalry thing going on. Some
days I think he only comes into work to wind me up. Besides,
I make it a rule never to accept anyone’s help.
Dot lays an affectionate hand on my arm. ‘You’re too proud
by half. You want to snap him up before someone else does.’
She hobbles off, presumably heading to her usual bench,
and a huff escapes me. Tom’s a good laugh, but that’s as far
as it goes.
When I get to the display table, I set down the case and then
wipe my hands on my trousers. Sensing someone behind me I
spin around, but there’s nobody there. Damn my stupid boss,
always loitering and making me feel uncomfortable– it’s no
wonder I’m paranoid. After checking he’s not around, I peek
at my phone. Mobiles are strictly forbidden at work so I’ve
set it to silent. I don’t want to get fired– I’m already on my
second warning– but I have to answer if she calls. Not that I
need worry: the screen is blank.
Nearly ten o’clock: time to start. I stand on tiptoes and raise
my voice. ‘Hello, if I could have your attention, please? The
talk will begin soon if anyone would like to join me.’ A couple
glance over but keep walking. Maybe it’s my appearance– pastel
pink bobbed hair, blunt micro fringe and nose stud– but people
often seem surprised that I work here, even in my uniform.
Or maybe seventeen-year-old girls are just easy to overlook.
I make my announcement again, louder this time, and a
bearded man in a dirty anorak shuffles over, followed by a
family, then two guys holding hands and a woman and her
moody pre-teen daughter who come every few weeks. The
woman wears her hair in a scraped-back ponytail and lives
in leopard-print jumpsuits, which means I spend more time
than I should wondering how she pees. We’ve chatted a few
times, and now she waves and gives me a friendly smile. The
girl sees me and rolls her eyes, seemingly convinced that Wye
Valley Butterfly Zoo is lame and nothing I can say will change
her mind.
I feel her pain– the border between England and Wales is
blessed with amazing views (if you like hills and sheep) but
isn’t exactly known for its entertainment options, and the
poor thing must have heard my talk a dozen times. Her mum
tries to hug her, but the girl shoves her off and takes out her
phone. The casual indifference of the gesture cuts a hole in my
chest and jealousy reaches in and squeezes my heart, quickly
followed by resentment. Between them, they have a mighty
strong grip.
Get it together, Ivy. Focus on work.
I avert my eyes, uncomfortable with my own feelings, and
bring my attention to the dozen people who’ve gathered to
hear my talk. The man in the anorak stares at me, his facial
muscles rigid as if they’ve been frozen into place. I wait for
him to say something, or at least blink, but he doesn’t. We get
some odd characters at the centre; dealing with them is part
of the job. Even so, I can’t help feeling a little unnerved. He
strokes his beard, repeating the movement robotically, and I
wonder if he has a nervous tic or anxiety. I smile reassuringly
7
at him, then thank the group for their patience and scan the
walkways for latecomers.
A family enters through the hanging plastic strips that cover
the entrance and something occurs to me. I included both
my work and home addresses in the letter, so my mum might
turn up here.
No. It’s so far to come; surely she’d ring me first. I don’t care
how hard it is to get to Bardsey. If she doesn’t call by the end
of the day, I’ll phone in sick and go to the island tomorrow. I
haveto know if it’s her.
A loud gasp brings me back to reality. People are pointing
and staring at a spot above my head.
‘What the hell arethey?’ asks jumpsuit woman. I glance up
and fluttering over me are three huge grey moths–acherontia
atropos, to be precise. These ones are adults of the species, each
with a twelve-centimetre wingspan.
‘They’re death’s head hawkmoths,’ I tell my audience. ‘They
get their name from the skull-shaped pattern that adorns their
thorax.’
The sight of them makes me shiver, despite the heat.
Not because they’re an omen of death, but because there’s
something unnatural about the way they circle over me.
Butterflies and moths usually fly haphazardly, going one way
and then another, not around and around in a neat pattern.
But this is like watching a few frames of film on repeat.
A high-pitched, pulsating screech fills the air and I raise
my voice. ‘They make that noise to scare away predators. It’s
particular to the species; not many moths do that.’
A few people in the crowd nod and look relieved, and then
the creatures flit towards a fern and the sound disappears as
quickly as it started. Unable to pull my gaze away, I watch
their strange flight with a growing sense of unease. I’ve never
seenanythinghere fly like that.