the case for the prosecution... ’
Death Through Tight-Lacing
‘It would be impossible to form anything like an accurate estimate of the thousands of persons who have fallen victims to the odious fashion of tight-lacing. A melancholy instance of this baneful practice occurred in New Town on Saturday night. Dorothea, the eldest daughter of Vincent Postlethwaite, Esq (a highly respectable and wealthy merchant of New Town), died suddenly at a ball given in her father’s house. While dancing with a young gentleman to whom she was engaged, she was observed by her partner to turn pale and to gasp spasmodically for breath; she tottered for a few brief seconds, and then fell. The general impression was that she had fainted; restoratives were applied without producing the desired effect. A doctor was sent for, who, upon examining the patient, pronounced the ill-fated young woman to be dead.
The consternation of the family and guests may be readily imagined, which was not a little enhanced by the medical gentleman declaring that Miss Postlethwaite had died from no other cause than tight-lacing.. . ’
‘What a way to go,’ said Cliticia.
‘But look at these,' I said, turning the page and pointing to a series of reports that focused on the off-world atrocities of last year. I let my finger rest upon an artist’s impression of a derailed train. Bodies lay sprawled across the lines and along the embankment. ‘Now there’s a Minotaur loose in Whitechapel, they say.’ I closed the book and set it to one side next to The Corset Defended. ‘All these murders. . .’
‘I told you before,’ she said, her dark eyes flashing, ‘a Minotaur would never do such fings.’ She sat back in her chair, visibly making an effort to calm herself. ‘They don’t really want to kill us. They want to enslave us. They want to domesticate us. They want to make us their pets.’ She stood up. The bustle was a ‘Langtry’ and worked on a pivot. It could be raised when sitting down and sprang back into shape whenever its wearer got to her feet. It was the height of fashion. ‘I ask you,’ she continued, unable to further moderate her passion, ‘why should they want to kill us ? They ’ave their wants and appetites just like we do. Why should we ’ave to deny it?’ She looked down at me, her lovely doll-like face set in an unbecoming grimace. ‘Why should any of us ’ave to deny it?’ And then her eyes opened wide, and then a little wider still, in naked fear. ‘You better not talk about any of this. I’m warning you, Maddy Fell!’
‘I won’t say anything,’ I said, surprised, wondering how it had so swiftly become her turn to get upset.
‘If you do—’ She sat down again, the bustle collapsing beneath her with an audible creak of its hinges. Then, biting moodily on her underlip, she ran her hands down her skirts, smoothing them and picking at the creases, like a child with a comfort blanket. ‘You don’t know what the Duennas are like. Jealous, they are. A bunch of suspicious ol’ cows. Give ’em an excuse, and they’d keep me ’ere on Earth, just for the spite of it. Believe me, they’d keep us both ’ere.’ She leant forward and, inclining her head slightly, gazed at me from beneath the brim of her gaily-adorned bonnet. ‘You must never let on, all right? On Monday the tests begin.’
Later that morning, shortly after I’d walked Cliticia to the front door and bid her goodbye, I turned about to discover my mother standing at the bottom of the stairs. She rounded on me.
‘Was that girl a Shulamite?’
I laughed. ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you?’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Don’t cheek me, my girl.’ I raised my eyes and inspected the blistered plaster that covered the ceiling. ‘She has trouble with her lessons. She’s only in the top standard because of the Shulamite quota system, and last inspection day she did really poorly. Miss Nelson asked me to
Death Through Tight-Lacing
‘It would be impossible to form anything like an accurate estimate of the thousands of persons who have fallen victims to the odious fashion of tight-lacing. A melancholy instance of this baneful practice occurred in New Town on Saturday night. Dorothea, the eldest daughter of Vincent Postlethwaite, Esq (a highly respectable and wealthy merchant of New Town), died suddenly at a ball given in her father’s house. While dancing with a young gentleman to whom she was engaged, she was observed by her partner to turn pale and to gasp spasmodically for breath; she tottered for a few brief seconds, and then fell. The general impression was that she had fainted; restoratives were applied without producing the desired effect. A doctor was sent for, who, upon examining the patient, pronounced the ill-fated young woman to be dead.
The consternation of the family and guests may be readily imagined, which was not a little enhanced by the medical gentleman declaring that Miss Postlethwaite had died from no other cause than tight-lacing.. . ’
‘What a way to go,’ said Cliticia.
‘But look at these,' I said, turning the page and pointing to a series of reports that focused on the off-world atrocities of last year. I let my finger rest upon an artist’s impression of a derailed train. Bodies lay sprawled across the lines and along the embankment. ‘Now there’s a Minotaur loose in Whitechapel, they say.’ I closed the book and set it to one side next to The Corset Defended. ‘All these murders. . .’
‘I told you before,’ she said, her dark eyes flashing, ‘a Minotaur would never do such fings.’ She sat back in her chair, visibly making an effort to calm herself. ‘They don’t really want to kill us. They want to enslave us. They want to domesticate us. They want to make us their pets.’ She stood up. The bustle was a ‘Langtry’ and worked on a pivot. It could be raised when sitting down and sprang back into shape whenever its wearer got to her feet. It was the height of fashion. ‘I ask you,’ she continued, unable to further moderate her passion, ‘why should they want to kill us ? They ’ave their wants and appetites just like we do. Why should we ’ave to deny it?’ She looked down at me, her lovely doll-like face set in an unbecoming grimace. ‘Why should any of us ’ave to deny it?’ And then her eyes opened wide, and then a little wider still, in naked fear. ‘You better not talk about any of this. I’m warning you, Maddy Fell!’
‘I won’t say anything,’ I said, surprised, wondering how it had so swiftly become her turn to get upset.
‘If you do—’ She sat down again, the bustle collapsing beneath her with an audible creak of its hinges. Then, biting moodily on her underlip, she ran her hands down her skirts, smoothing them and picking at the creases, like a child with a comfort blanket. ‘You don’t know what the Duennas are like. Jealous, they are. A bunch of suspicious ol’ cows. Give ’em an excuse, and they’d keep me ’ere on Earth, just for the spite of it. Believe me, they’d keep us both ’ere.’ She leant forward and, inclining her head slightly, gazed at me from beneath the brim of her gaily-adorned bonnet. ‘You must never let on, all right? On Monday the tests begin.’
Later that morning, shortly after I’d walked Cliticia to the front door and bid her goodbye, I turned about to discover my mother standing at the bottom of the stairs. She rounded on me.
‘Was that girl a Shulamite?’
I laughed. ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you?’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Don’t cheek me, my girl.’ I raised my eyes and inspected the blistered plaster that covered the ceiling. ‘She has trouble with her lessons. She’s only in the top standard because of the Shulamite quota system, and last inspection day she did really poorly. Miss Nelson asked me to
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