Chapter One

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Chicago, 1871

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ELINA POWELL'S NEEDLE PUNCHED through the thick fabric. Up one side and down the other. No matter how many times she adjusted the presser foot, the bobbin rattled in its cage, tangling the thread into a nest of knots. Frustrated, she pressed her knee harder against the treadle. It was always the same problem when she worked on men's trousers—it was as if the stitches resisted her touch.

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Sitting next to her, Sarah O’Leary shook her head and ticked, “Why are you so afraid to handle —” she paused to make sure no one was listening “the fork?”

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Elina released the presser foot and yanked the pants from her machine. “I don’t know. Why are you so afraid to sew women’s undergarments?”

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Both young ladies chuckled behind their hands as to not draw attention to themselves. Elina looked up to see if the older women in the shop overheard them. Thankfully, no one had.

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Sarah and Elina had been sitting side by side sewing in Julius Thompson’s shop for nearly six years. He was a kind man, not like the rest of the sweatshop employers in the Windy City, but it was unlike him to require his best seamstresses, or any at all for that matter, to work on a Sunday. He was a devout Jew, but he respected other religions and their day of rest. Today was a first, and Elina couldn’t help but wonder why.

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Sarah pulled her project from the machine and turned the pants right side out. “What do you suppose Mr. Thompson has in store for us?” She folded the cuffs and pinned the hemlines. With a pin pinched between her lips, she added, “Maybe he’s recognized our good work, and he wants to reward us.”

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“I don’t suppose it’s any of our business as to why he wants us here,” Lena said. “I’m just surprised he had us work on a Sunday.” Lena glanced at the photographs attached to the wall next to her. “We only have one free day a week to spend with our families, and he knows this.”

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Mrs. Smith, who sat closest to the door, craned her neck to listen to what the two youngest workers were going on about then cleared her throat.

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As not wanting to get in trouble again, Elina looked down at her work and guided the fabric through the machine. She wondered what her husband and little girl were doing right now. Were they playing dominoes or maybe reading Rumpelstilskin, Viola’s favorite, again? Had he prepared her fish and potatoes yet? David was a fine husband, sweet and smart, but one who often got lost in his tinkering.

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Taking care of Viola was a chore. At five, she was what Mrs. Smith called spirited, and during those times when the spirit got ahold of her, David encouraged Elina to use the belt.

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Before emigrating to America, Elina had experienced what the snap of worn leather felt like on her bare buttocks, therefore, she remained resolute to never let Viola feel that kind of breathless pain.

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The clock over the door chimed half past twelve.

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Mrs. Smith pushed back her chair and made a show of finishing her fourth set of trousers. She snapped the pants like a person would crack a clean sheet on a summer day, then folded them with precision before presenting her finished product to the room. “That’s four in four hours, ladies.” Mrs. Smith sewed twice as fast as any of the other women, and she loved to gloat about that fact as if working faster added more coins to her purse, which it did not.

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Her heels clicked across the floor as she sauntered to the window for a celebratory smoke. Elena wasn’t a smoker, but she enjoyed the smells associated with the past time, like the instant a matchhead caught on fire and the moment said fire burned the fresh tobacco. Mrs. Smith inhaled sharply, her ember glowing a bright orange, reminding Elina, who liked to follow the rules, they’re not supposed to smoke in the shop. There were hundreds of fabric bolts lining the walls, and they could create a massive blaze within a matter of minutes.

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Pyrophobia had grown in the city lately. With this year’s squelching heat of the second summer and drier than normal conditions, there had been too many fires for a person to feel safe a hundred percent of the time. The fire brigade hadn’t grown large enough to handle a big fire, and most of the tenements and cottages were constructed from wood. Some said the poor immigrants lived in tinder boxes just waiting for one spark to catch hold. This idea pleased some of the Northside of Chicago residents, as they did not care for the recent influx of immigrants, and they hoped a fire would push them out.

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“Drat,” Mrs. Smith said. She extinguished her cigarette and fanned the air. “He’s coming.” She peered out the window. “And someone is with him.” She scrunched her nose and pushed her glasses into place. “No time for dillydallying.”

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The whir of the machines picked up. Mrs. Smith ran to her station and began a new pair of pants.

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The door swung open, and a welcomed breeze rushed in. Elina straightened in her chair and wiped her brow. She knew enough to be careful not to look lazy, so she rummaged through her button basket and pulled one that resembled a half-dime.

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Mr. Thompson entered first then held the door open for his guest. “And this is the shop,” he boomed. “Not a full staff today, but look at these women in action.” He often boasted about his workers, taking pride in their accomplishments.

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As the stranger entered, the breeze strengthened, fluttering the edges of fabric and sent a shiver down Elina's spine. It was peculiar since this felt like the hottest day of the year. Gooseflesh rose on Elina’s arms. She didn’t know what to think of this oddity. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Sarah did the same, but the other women didn't appear to notice. Elina wondered if she and her friend might be coming down with something. She couldn’t afford to get sick right now. As the winter season approached, David had been searching for extra masonry work, but there were too few jobs.

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Mr. Thompson and the stranger strode down the aisles, looking over the shoulder of each seamstress. “And here, we have Mrs. Smith, the fastest in town. This one can produce twice as many pairs of pants on any given day as the rest of the lot.”

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The stranger nodded then ground his top front teeth against the bottom row, making an awful scraping noise. He tipped his hat, and Mrs. Smith blushed. This made the stranger smile a full mouth of startling white teeth, something Elina hadn’t seen before.

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Elina threaded her needle and knotted the ends. She passed the needle through the fabric, then a small hole in her button, and back down through the fabric. She’d attached enough buttons in her lifetime that she was confident she could accomplish the task blindfolded. This skill gave her the perfect opportunity to discretely watch the men out of the corner of her eye.

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The stranger wasn’t looking at Mr. Thompson or Mrs. Smith—he was scanning the room. Elina bowed her head before his gaze fell on her. There was something eerie about this man. Her gut warned her not to engage. The very night she left Sweden she learned on the ship’s deck in the middle of a starless night to always trust her intuition. She found out the hard way what happened when she didn’t, and a price had been paid. After the ship incident, she vowed to always trust her gut in the future. Today, it told her to be wary.

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“I do not care about speed,” the stranger said. “I would like to see the work of your most skilled seamstress.

Some days, I prefer quantity over quality, but today, I desire beauty.” With a gloved hand, the stranger patted Mr. Thompson’s chest. “Show me the most beautiful in your shop.”

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Elina wasn’t a betting woman, not like Mrs. Smith anyway, but she would be willing to wager there was something nefarious going on here. The stranger made her uneasy.

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Mr. Thompson lifted a finger like he suddenly had the brightest idea ever, “That would be our lovely Elena Skoglund.” He spoke loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Not only will her fine stitching speak for itself, but her delightful countenance is one hard to tear away from.”

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Elena knew she was a beautiful woman. It was impossible not to know when walking through the industrial district on any given day. American men, whether from Italy or Germany or anywhere else for that matter, all whistled the same. The pitch indicating she must hurry home before the sun dipped below the horizon.

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This was the first time Elina had ever heard Mr. Thompson speak of her beauty, and she did not like how it made her feel. Some of the women in the shop would gossip and possibly tell lies about the nature of their relationship. They would love a way to sabotage her reputation.

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Elina dreamt about rising to the top in her profession, to design and sew dresses for the affluent, the ones who resided on streets where the sidewalks didn’t belch green ooze between the boards. She desired to live in a neighborhood where the smell of excrement didn’t hang in the air. Perhaps the noise from the sewing machines had muffled Mr. Thompson’s words to the rest of the room, but it was doubtful, especially for Mrs. Smith who’d probably just had her ego bruised since being the fastest was not the reward today.

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For a moment, she wished she could be like a magician’s assistant—step inside the box and disappear.

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With each step in her direction, the stranger tapped his cane on the floor. He seemed to be keeping the beat of a song she knew but hadn’t heard in eons. The closer he stepped, the louder the tapping. Elina closed her eyes, and the sound echoed through her head.

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Just as they reached her station, Elena accidentally stabbed her finger with her needle. Blood pooled into a bead. She sucked the blood from her finger and immediately thought of Vampyre, the book currently sitting on her bureau. She wondered if it was possible this man standing in her presence was such a creature.

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Just as she laughed at the thought, a raspy but quiet voice, hardly noticeable, popped into her head, “I am not,” it said.

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Elina jumped in her seat and looked up at the two men above her. Neither appeared to have spoken.

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The stranger was a sharp contrast to Mr. Thompson. He stood at least a foot taller than her employer and was leaner. He wore a formal black suit, including a top hat with a black feather in its brim. He looked as if he were heading to the theater. But, there weren’t any shows on Sundays. The man sported a dark mustache that had been carefully waxed and curled, much like the style she’d unsuccessfully tried to convince her husband to try.

She did not dare meet the stranger’s eyes, but she could feel he wanted her to. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders tightly.

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Mr. Thompson didn’t seem to notice she had just stabbed her finger, and the blood had stopped pooling, so she quickly went back to sewing her button. “Mrs. Skoglund, would you be so kind to retrieve your project from the cabinet? I’d like to show Mr. Mephisto your talents.”

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Elina swallowed hard. She’d stayed late many a night to work on a gown she’d been creating for Viola’s hope chest. She had no idea anyone, least of all Mr. Thompson, knew she’d been staying to use her machine. She

clutched the pants to her chest.

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Mr. Thompson repeated, “Elina?”

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Keeping her head down, Elina nodded and pushed back her chair—the legs screeched across the floor. She placed the pants on her station and padded down the aisle to the section of cabinets no one ever used. They were mostly filled with remnants of last year’s castoffs. She unlocked the corner cabinet and pulled a gown that was nearly complete. The pale pink silk ruffled against her skin. Elina had chosen the perfect gauge for the lace that covered the bodice which created a sweet feminine mystique. One day, Viola would be a woman, and if the trends were heading where Elina thought they would, her daughter would need to show a small amount of collar bone to attract the right station of man.

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Elina cradled the dress as if it were a newborn and walked back to the men.

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Mr. Thompson ran his hand over the silk and lace. “She does fine work, my Lena,” he said with pride.

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Elina stiffened. He had never spoken to her with such familiarity before, not in front of others. She glanced at Sarah, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Mrs. Smith’s lips thinned, and Elina knew this would be gossip by the end of the day.

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Mr. Mephisto picked up the edge of a ruffle then turned to Mr. Thompson, “I would imagine Mrs. Skoglund’s skills would be desired by many.”

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Mr. Thompson clasped his hands behind his back. “Undoubtedly. I am truly blessed to have such talent in my shop.”

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Mr. Mephisto turned to Elina, who kept her head bowed. “I have seen all I need to see. Thank you, Mrs. Skoglund. I won’t keep you from your work.”

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Elina rushed back to the cabinet and placed the dress neatly on its shelf. She knew she’d never hear the end of her secret after they departed. Mrs. Smith had trusted her to lock up after they had all left for the day, and Lena was sure the old woman had no idea she was staying late to use her machine. Lena hadn’t even told her best friend what she’d been doing.

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Once back in her seat, Elina quickly returned to sewing. Before long, the men were near the exit. The chill remained in the room, but Elina could also feel a circle of heat on her back. It was as if someone’s gaze burned on her skin. She didn’t need to look to know that Mr. Mephisto was staring at her. She shook her head trying to dislodge the feeling her gut held on to. She forced her shaking hands to get back to work while she waited for them to leave.

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The minute the door slammed shut, the oppressive heat returned, and Elina was soon sweating just as much as she had for the last four months.

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Sarah slowed her machine. “What was that all about?”

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Elina shrugged her shoulders.

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“We all knew you were talented with the stitch, but Lena—that dress—is beautiful.” Sarah stopped her sewing and turned to her friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

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Lena blushed at the compliment. “I don’t know.” In fact, she didn’t know why she hadn’t told anyone, not even David knew she created elaborate gowns.

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“Where did you ever get that much fabric? I know what your wages are, so I know you didn’t purchase it.” Sarah stood up and took ahold of her friend’s hand. “Come on. Show me.”

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Lena looked at the other women. Mrs. Smith scowled, but that was usual. The others worked as if the visitor and the discovery hadn’t just elicited a reason to stop work to discuss what just happened.

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When the friends reached the cabinet, Elina pulled the dress, and Sarah took it in her arms, closing her eyes as the silk swam over her skin.

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“Oh, Lena. It’s divine.” She ran her hand over the lace. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” She inspected the tiny stitches, so minuscule they were nearly invisible. “How? Where? When?” She couldn’t decide what to ask first.

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Elina touched the lacy flowers. “Do you know Mrs. Anderson from church?”

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“Of course. Everyone knows that show off. The woman wears the largest hats I’ve ever seen. Full of feathers and buttons and sashes. She must have a sore neck at the end of every day. What about her?”

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“About a year ago, she asked me to come over to her house to complete some alterations.”

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“Doesn’t she have a house seamstress?”

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Lena nodded slowly.

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Sarah was quick to understand. “Let me guess. You needed to let out a waistline or two?”

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Lena continued to nod.

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“For the daughter?”

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“I don’t know who they were for, but that would be my guess. Please don’t say anything.”

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“Your secret is safe with me." They knew they couldn't gossip with the others around. "Tell me about the fabric for this dress?”

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“Ever since then, I’ve been called back to alter other dresses, much in the same way, but I can tell they are not for the same woman. Some of them are for the servants, but not all from the same house. Every alteration comes with detailed instructions to create a dress with a hidden waistline.”

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“You’ve become sort of a fairy godmother.”

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“I don’t know about that. I just do what is asked of me, and, like magic, out of season dresses show up in my attic room. Once in a while, a bolt of silk or a spool of golden thread shows up too. I never know who sends what, but the jobs and the materials keep coming. So, I used what I could to create this gown for Viola. I don’t know when the orders will stop, so I figured I should make her as many beautiful dresses as I can. I want my hard work to pay off so she can live a better life than us. I want that for my little girl.”

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Sarah pursed her lips. “You’re going to make me cry, Elina Skoglund. You are the best woman I have ever known.” Sarah leaned closer and lowers her voice, "I may need your help soon too.”

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Elina raised her eyebrows. "Are you?"

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Sarah rubbed her belly and nodded.

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The look of surprise and joy on Elina’s face was priceless. She embraced her friend. They quietly laughed until the tears sprung forth.

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“Ladies,” Mrs. Smith sternly called from the other side of the room.

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Elina tucked the dress back into the cupboards, and the two young ladies rushed back to their machines. Before Elina started sewing another man’s pant leg, she reached across the aisle and padded Sarah’s arm. “I am so happy for the both of you. Joseph must be thrilled.”

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Sarah nodded and wiped her eyes. “It’s been a long time coming. I was beginning to wonder.” She shook her head, “But God has blessed us for sure.” She rested her hand on her belly.

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Mrs. Smith stood to look over at the two women. They put their heads down and set their machines to whirring with the rest.

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Elina’s mind drifted away from her friend's news. Away from the sewing room. Away from her attic, away from Chicago, and over the sea. She was back in Sweden, only a child. She sat on the warm hearth next to her mother.

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“My daughter, you have been gifted a golden needle.” She touched Elina’s cross stitch. “For the remainder of your life, you will need to be careful.”

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“Why Mama?” Little Elina asked.

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“Because, my child, great gifts come at great costs.”

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Mrs. Smith flickered the lights, and the whirring quieted. "Ladies, you may pack it in when you finish your next set of trousers."

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Sarah clipped her last strings. "Perfect timing." She folded the pants and set them aside. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said to Lena.

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Lena nodded. "See you tomorrow."

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As she watched her friend walk out the front door, Mrs. Smith caught Elina's eye. Something about her face was different, but she couldn't figure out what it was, so she looked down at her work and once again wished she was a magician's assistant, and she could disappear.

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End of Chapter

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