She hated her name as much as the cliché for which it stood. Violet had to be coaxed and cajoled out of her shell by those who found her pretty. When her father had arranged her to marry a jeweler from Oxford she thought it a blessing. But on their wedding night, her curse appeared.
She’d fled through gas-lit, cobblestone streets and hid in the alleys of London to escape what she perceived as the will of God against her.
And although hiding came naturally, what choice had she? When her skills with needle and thread were overcome by the Spinning Jenny, the easy attentions of men were all that remained to cultivate coin.
Her reluctance was taken for shyness even though it was terror at what her curse would soon wreak upon the man who slept with her forcing her to leave town.
“My name is Jack,” the customer said in her moment of weakness.
In moments, as his sexual flesh touched hers, his body began to dwindle until little remained but a doll-sized man. Quickly, she gathered her money and ran.