The Tailoress of Crimson LaneBy Shaun van Rensburg
IN THE midst of the French Revolution, there lived a girl on Crimson Lane. She wasn’t beautiful nor was she by any means gifted in the arts of literature or music, and therefore she went unnoticed. This invisible little girl, however, was by no means ordinary.
Once, some time in her eighth year, she had fallen and scraped her palms. The impact had been quick, the pain only an irritation, but it was in this moment that she had seen something she had never forgotten.
To the ordinary spectator, it would have resembled an uneventful incident—a child learning one of the many lessons of life—but it wasn’t a lesson being taught, it was an obsession being born. For you see, where any other child saw pain in scars and scrapes, this plain little
