Page 3 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

I packed up and let myself out of the shop, carefully locking the door behind me. It was a cold night, and the blanket of London fog tucked itself snugly around everything in sight. A nearby streetlamp struggled valiantly, managing to cast a dim silver halo of light that diffused into the darkness like perfume from a glass bottle.

“Hello, darlin’,” a voice slurred from over my shoulder. “Aren’t you a pretty piece?”

I turned. A man was weaving his way towards me – older, dressed in a worn suit, and clearly the worse for drink.

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got the face of an angel?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s not an imaginative compliment. Now, excuse me, please.”

His brow furrowed. “I’m only trying to be friendly.”

He reached out and put his hand on my arm.

That was his mistake.

In a flash I had the thin silver blade of my pen knife against his neck.

“Let. Go.”

His hand leaped from my arm like I was a burning-hot coal.

“Now, now,” he said, his voice coming out in a thin whine. “There’s no need for that, just being friendly, just being friendly.”

“I’m not looking for a friend.” I stepped back and the man exhaled. I kept the knife pointed towards him, moonlight flashing wickedly across the blade.

“I thought you was a nice girl,” he grumbled, backing further away, his hands held up in front of him.

“I suppose you were wrong.”

With a shake of his head, as though I had let him down, he finally turned and walked away.

A nice girl. More fool him. My mother always told me that appearances could be deceiving. Well, I was living proof of that. I had learned a lot during my years in London.

You see, people always assume that I’m the pretty little piece of embroidery.

But I’m not.

I am the needle.

CHAPTER TWO

Three days later, I was no closer to a decision about what to do.

I couldn’t just go home and reveal that I was very much alive. At best, Helena hated me and at worst, Helena was a ruthless murderer. Who was to say what lengths she would go to conceal the truth?

The city was hardly safe, yet the thought of living with Helena felt riskier still. If my father had been unable to survive her, then I wasn’t sure I liked my own chances.

But I was no longer a naive child. I was a force to be reckoned with. And I would not abandon my father’s memory without a fight. Helena couldn’t win.

It wasn’t simply justice that I wanted. It was revenge. I wanted her to suffer as I had suffered. To lose.

These thoughts chased each other round and round in my head.

Then, as so often happens in stories like this, fate stepped in and everything changed.

***

Madame Solange’s shop was a smart building in the West End of London. These premises had been acquired two years ago, when the success of our dressmaking made moving to more luxurious surroundings a possibility. Now the words in Madame’s window were no idle boast: we really did produce the finest stitching in London.