The Seamstress

Love Letters

The woman watches as orange flames lick the bride's bloodstained dress. "Foolish," she scolds herself, throwing a stick into the fire with more force than necessary. "Letting the girl see you. Now she'll tell everybody."

She chews on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. "She must go," she decides. "She has escaped me twice... but never a third time. Not from Absinthe."

*

The next afternoon Aunt Queenie pulls on her coat, slings her purse over her shoulder, and announces that she is going grocery shopping.

"I'll be back in an hour," she says. "Don't go in my room, or eat any snacks, or go outside. And if Sylvester comes in, just ignore him. And can someone flush that dead goldfish?"

Zinnia wrinkles her nose from the kitchen table where she's knitting a large sock; she's been knitting all day. "How did it die anyway?" she asks.

"The cat killed it," Aunt Queenie says. She opens the front door and steps out into the cold afternoon air. "See you later."

The moment the door shuts I ignore Zinnia's invitation to knit with her and head for Aunt Queenie's bedroom. I know she's part of this entire clothes-strangling-people-to-death thing, and the first place to look for answers is in here.

Besides, I'm desperate.

The room is small, and there aren't many places to look. The bookshelf is stocked with cookbooks and historical fiction with stray knitting and sewing patterns tucked in the pages. I carefully comb through them but find nothing.

Frustrated, I turn to the vanity table's drawers, but only find makeup and hairbrushes. I'm about to give up when I decide to look under the bed.

I cough slightly as dust poofs out. Squinting, I can see the outline of a box. I reach over and grab it.

Dead spiders fall off the top and onto the floor, making me shiver. I grasp the heavy wooden box and heave it onto the bed, quickly lifting the top.

I half-expect to see more knitting patterns, but instead there are several pieces of yellowed paper. On the top is an old grey photograph; it feels so delicate I'm afraid it might crumble in my hands. Two people are in the centre: a young short woman with raven-black hair in a curly bun holding a black kitten, and a smiling man. The woman's face is hidden in shadows, only a small smile visible on her lips. But the man is grinning widely with bright teeth. I peer closer and see that he's holding the hand of the woman.

I flip the photo over, curious. On the back is a scribbled message.

Dear Abby,

Happy birthday. 19 is certainly a special number; two more years and we will be wed. I'm glad you like the kitten; Sylvester is a wonderful name.

-Love, Quentin.

I freeze, the picture trembling in my fingers. I let go and let it drift back into the box.

I look at the woman again, and the kitten in her arms. Even though the photograph is in black and white, I can see his piercing yellow eyes as clearly as if they were staring right at me.

Aunt Queenie said Sylvester had been with her for 25 years. But, unless this is a complete coincidence--which I am absolutely certain it isn't--he's been alive for much longer.

Maybe it wasn't a dream after all. Maybe Sylvester is real.

No, no, I don't want to think about that, I think firmly. He's not real. I know he isn't.

Slowly I reach for another piece of paper--this time a letter. The neat loopy handwriting is different to the one on the photograph; I assume it's Abby's.

My dear Quentin,

I wish you would hurry and come back. It's horribly boring here, without our secret evening walks and picnics. I'm stuck inside all day now with nothing else to do but study. I hate that all Father wants me to do is be a "well-educated housewife." I know I'm complaining about it too much, but I can't help it. I just wish they would let me sew. After telling them of my dream to work at the tailor's they've been even more keen on keeping me inside.

Come back soon.

-Love, Abby, 1852

Eager to read more, I reach in the box for the next letter, this time one in Quentin's scrawl.

Sweet Abby,

I wish I could return too. London is dull, and it rains too much. But at least my father is making money--though nearly not enough for Mother's doctor bills. She grows worse by the day and I fear her time will come soon.

But worry not; I will come back within the next year, and by then I will have a very important question to ask you.

-Love from Quentin, 1852

I read letter after letter. There are more than 50 of them, each one mushier than the last. It's clear these two people--Quentin and Abby--are in love. And from what I can tell, she was a lonely, wealthy girl who lived with her father. Against his wishes, she wanted to marry this man--Quentin--and become a seamstress.

The excitement of finding the box of letters slowly fades away as I find no new information. Defeated, I look at the photo again. There's something familiar about the woman, but I can't see her face properly.

I'm about to put the box away before Aunt Queenie comes back when I notice one last letter stuck to the bottom of the box. Carefully I peel it off. It's in Abby's handwriting, but it's unusually messy, as though written very fast.

Dear Quentin,

Angry tears fall from my eyes as I write these words, knowing you will never read them.

Something haunts the woods just a couple hours from my house, and that is the place where I begged for what I desire; to drag needle and thread through cloth has always been a simple joy in my life, and now it will be the ending of my father, as poison was yours.

I love you and will always love you forever. I am sorry, so sorry, that it has come to this, but I meant it when I said I would do anything to accomplish my dream.

I will avenge your passing, and I swear it is not my fault. Your death is not my doing; it is the cruel wish of others.

-Abby, 1856

I swallow, my throat dry. I read through the letter again, my mind buzzing. Quentin died, but why? Abby said he was poisoned, but by who? And she said her father would die too...

But what confuses me more than this horrifying story is why it's piled up in a wooden box underneath my aunt's bed.