Birmingham, 1850. Meet Mary. She’s twenty-six, and she washes other people’s clothes for a living. She wakes at 4 AM. By 5, she’s at the canal. The canal is black. Factory waste pours into it—dye from textile works, acid from foundries, raw sewage. The water smells of rot and chemicals. Mary washes in it anyway. Because she has no choice. She’s washing shirts and linens belonging to the factory owners—the men whose foundries fill this canal with poison. Her hands are raw. The skin around her knuckles has cracked open from constant water and cold. The wounds never heal—they just open and reopen, day after day. She can’t afford the soap she uses on their clothes. She buys the cheapest lye—harsh caustic soap that strips the skin from her hands as it strips dirt from cotton. Mary earns 6 shillings a week. Less than men. Less than chimney sweeps. Less than almost anyone. She has three children. Her husband died two years ago—lung disease from the brass works. Now she’s the only income. Six ...