The Seamstress

Swollen with fog and smoke, the air outside was a bruise that leaked through doorway gaps and shutters. Inside, the seamstress worked with steady hands, though her heart kicked against her ribs. Her scissors gleamed in the dim light, their edges nicked and worn from years of labour, but tonight they seemed alien—sharp in a way they hadn’t been before.

She tightened her grip, threading a needle with a twist of fraying cotton. Dorset Street. Another girl carved open, discarded like meat. The whispers had been thick as smog that morning, curling through the marketplace and down the alleyways. “Another one gone. She never had a chance.”

No one did.

Her stitching quickened, precise and urgent. The fabric resisted her, an uncooperative thing, but she pushed the needle through, over and over, until the hidden sheath took shape. It was small and unobtrusive, stitched into her petticoat where the knife would sit against her hip. She tested the weight—a cold press, reassuring in its severity.

When the blade was secure, she rose, her cloak trailing behind her. The room closed in as she pulled the door open, spilling her into the night. The fog swallowed her whole. Everything was wet: the air, the cobblestones, the buildings slick with soot and dew.

She moved through the labyrinth of Whitechapel’s streets, her steps soft but deliberate. Gaslights struggled against the dark, their flames dim and inadequate. The knife shifted as she walked, a constant reminder of what she carried, what she had become.

Each shadow was a threat, every sound a prelude to violence. But this time, she wasn’t afraid. This time, she was ready.

Written by Ellis Lore Söderlund.

Cover photo first published in Jack London, The People of the Abyss, Macmillan, New York, 1903, 319 p., page 2. (Public Domain)