London, 1863. This is Elizabeth. She’s nineteen years old. And her hands don’t work anymore. Elizabeth works in a white lead factory. She makes white paint and cosmetics—face powder for wealthy women who want fashionably pale skin. The process is simple: ∙ Take sheets of lead ∙ Expose them to vinegar vapor and carbon dioxide ∙ Scrape off the white powder that forms ∙ Grind it ∙ Mix it ∙ Package it Elizabeth’s job is grinding. She stands at a table with a mortar and pestle, crushing white lead into fine powder. For twelve hours a day. Six days a week. The powder is everywhere. In the air. On her skin. In her lungs. She breathes it. She eats it—there’s no time to wash hands before lunch. Lead is poison. After six months, Elizabeth noticed her gums turning blue-black. The “lead line”—the first sign of poisoning. After a year, the stomach pains started. “Lead colic”—cramping so severe she’d collapse. She kept working. After eighteen months, her hands began to fail. “Wrist drop”—the t...