Winter’s frozen fist punched through her windows and crawled over the bare boards where her cold feet stood during the day, and the cradle where her little angel slept, and the small bed where men lay on top of her. Her body only brought in so much, and less since the little angel. One rare client, instead of using her, asked something strange. A bag of warm money sang in his hand.

She accomplished the task as the client had requested–easy. A little trip to the Thames during the night. The client left it outside, and she dealt with it.

She sat on the banks for a few minutes, singing her little angel’s favorite lullaby. The frozen fist loosened around her and a little warmth slipped in.

Back to the client before the sun came up to gather her earnings. Holding the bag of money close against her body, she hurried through alleys back to her little hideyhole. She bought broth. As the sun came, up her soup sat glassy and still in her bowl. Her hands twitched in her lap. Fire roared inside her.

The client had friends. A few of the friends, rich just like the client, had similar problems, and she had sudden revenue. About once a week, she would get a message from a fake name, different every time. Their real names, no doubt, began with “Sir” or “Madam.” “Lord,” or “Lady.” “Earl.” “Duchess.” They never told her; she didn’t ask.

Requests grew more frequent. Soon it wasn’t just those who didn’t want them; it was those who couldn’t keep them. She didn’t charge them as much. One way or the other, she went to the river and sang.

She found larger lodgings. Bought finer clothes. Ate richer food. Found better things for her little angel. Her clients met with her when she wanted–if they didn’t, others would pay just as much.

One busy night had three jobs to complete, all over the dark city, and then back to her nice warm bed to sleep away the sun. Long hours weighed her down as she worked, and her exhaustion warped her aim. Instead of the one she had been paid for, she grabbed one off the street at random. A child who huddled away from the cold. She had dumped it into the Thames along with the others before understanding. It struggled, crying out for help.

She didn’t move to help. Horror subsided; fever spread across her limbs as she stood on the banks above the water. Her throat bobbed; she swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, fever rising into her head.

You’re almost there. Go on, you can make it. You’re almost to safety. Struggle. Splash the water. Cry out. It was just a mistake. If you only get to the shore, the woman who did this will pick you up and dry you off and warm you up if you just…struggle…a little…more….

The child sank, tired body succumbing to winter water’s killing cold. The last bubbles popped, and then the surface turned glassy once more. Her lips moved through her angel’s lullaby. Silent. Breath shook her body, and she coiled like a spring ready to burst.

Home. Her little angel still slept.

The next night she put on her dark clothing and stepped outside. The fist crushed her lungs and heart. She needed warmth. Afterward, she slipped home, money heavy in her pockets, cold prickling her skin. She passed an alley and spied a little one huddled against the wall, away from the cold.

A drop of boiling water trickled down her spine. She reached out for the little one. Soot-covered, wind-burned, big-eyed–it took her hand as she whispered about warm fires and full plates and friends to play with.

Searing heat washed back and forth across her as the child drowned. You can do it. Keep trying. Keep trying! Struggle! Do everything you can! Everything! You’re almost there!

She laid on the covers of her bed, panting, rubbing her hands over her skin to spread the heat. It faded like a dream. Grumbling, she rose to her duties. Washed clothes, played with her angel, made food, answered letters until the next night.

The alley from the night before offered nothing. Another had two of them, one of each kind; her warm words drew them out of their holes and into her hands.

Gasps of laughter slipped between her lips as they struggled in the water. They clutched each other, nearing the bank until their combined weight and the freezing water stilled their limbs. She bit down on her fingernails until the last bubble broke the surface.

Hours later, after she rose from her bed to arrange her mussed hair and get ready for the next night, she realized she hadn’t completed the job the night before. The client sent her a message, steamed, saying someone had discovered the job waiting for her at the spot they had determined and traced it back to the client. Now the client was disgraced and blamed her.

She tossed the letter into the fire roaring in the hearth and soothed her angel. Just one client. It wasn’t a problem.

No more messages came that day. Money filled her accounts. The client’s whispers about her would pass.

Cold squeezed her as their small bodies sank in the river during her jobs that night. She found another unpaid, and her heart boiled. Staggering home, her breath came out in puffs of steam.

The messages dwindled and stopped. Big names had to rely on their workers. Every night she stepped outside to warm herself.

Alley-children trade secrets. The places near the Thames emptied. Nights passed without warmth. She went out during the day once to see what she could learn and passed a happy couple pushing a pram. A little one inside–sweet like her angel–peered at her.

That night she dressed dark and crept to where the couple lived. They hadn’t even bolted the window.

The next day, warm again, she stopped by their home. Neighbors and family consoled the couple as the law took their statement. Something had taken their little angel. She wandered to another street and then another and another and another and another until she found a little angel out with its family.

In a week, every door and window had a lock. Parents squeezed little hands.

She spent weeks cold, freezing in her bed despite the roaring fire. She played with her little angel, cold, cold, so cold–her heart hung heavy and still inside her chest. Every night she went out, trying doors at random and peering into dark alleys for things sleeping there. Every so often, one of the little angels fell into her hands, and she would be warm for a few nights.

The law couldn’t ignore it. They darkened her door. She fled, leaving her little angel behind, and when they looked into the cradle, they found an infant dead of drowning before winter had started.

Parents checked outside windows for a woman lingering across the street. Alley-children trusted not a soul. Newspapers gave her a name.

Years later, the name still sneaks into conversation. From people who remembered the short period of terror–they checked the doors and windows. Sometimes parents who didn’t understand. They told their children to be good, or she would come to get them. It didn’t matter how many locked doors or shut windows or heavy covers. She would take them to the river and send them off to join all the other little angels.

Every once in a while, a child disappeared, one living near a river. Different rivers every time.

The Angelmaker guides them from the cradle to the grave, but it is never a long trip.

– Daniel Deisinger