Leeds, England, 1916

The noise of the factory was deafening.

Heavy machinery operating, workers shouting across the room to each other, the clang of shells being moved from place to place, made it hard to think.

Even for Isabeau Aguillon, a vampire who had been around for more than two hundred years, it was exhausting.

The Great War had raged for two years now, and it had been made clear some time ago that there was a severe shortage of munitions. Factories had sprung up across the country, frantically trying to meet demands, but difficulties had been further exacerbated earlier in the year when conscription was introduced. Millions of men had been forced to leave the country, on top of the millions who had already volunteered when the war broke out. The workforce in Britain had been left severely depleted, and women had stepped up to keep everything moving.

Isabeau was one of them.

After the end of her relationship with Esther Jones, she had left Britain and travelled again, but it had felt like she'd left part of herself back in England, and twenty-five years ago, she had returned, this time with the intention of staying as long as she could.

She was French by birth, but the Revolution had turned her home country into something she didn't recognise, and she'd never gone back. England was her home now, and when the Great War broke out, Isabeau was determined to help, any way she could.

When the Barnbow Munitions factory in Leeds had started recruiting women to fill the places left by the men who'd gone off to fight, Isabeau had been among the first volunteers.

The work was gruelling.

The factory had built temporary accommodation to house the workers, including nurseries so that mothers could work the exhausting twelve-hour shifts.

Sandwiches were eaten standing up, at the machines, and a ten minute break was allowed during a shift so that workers could use the toilets. Isabeau, of course, had no need for a toilet, but when her break came around, she gladly took it.

Anything to snatch a few minutes outside.

Her wooden clogs clacked on the floor as she made her way out of Room 42, the section where she worked, and out of the factory proper. All workers had to wear shoes of wood or rubber, to prevent the possibility of sparks being caused by shoes with any metal in them. No metal items were allowed – no jewellery or hairpins, no corsets – and carrying matches or cigarettes inside was punishable with a prison sentence.

There was always a risk of volatile munitions materials exploding, so every regulation had to be taken to curb the risk.

Isabeau didn't need to breathe, but as soon as she stepped outside, she sucked a deep breath into her lungs anyway.

The factory was poorly ventilated, reeking of chemicals and machinery and human sweat, and as long as she was working here, she didn't have much time to sneak away to hunt for animals that she could drink from. That had left her weaker than normal.

She looked up at the night sky, at the way the stars sparkled against a velvet backdrop, and closed her eyes, rotating her shoulders to unknot her aching muscles.

How much worse must it be for the poor people who didn't have the strength of a vampire to help them through this?

"Isabeau?"

Her eyes snapped open.

She knew that voice.

It had been a long time since she'd heard it, but it hadn't changed over the decades.

Isabeau turned around.

Esther stood behind her, wearing the same grubby overalls, wooden clogs, and head covering as Isabeau. And like Isabeau, she wore dog tags around her neck, used to identify casualties in the event of an explosion.

Explosions had happened in other factories.

People had died.

Esther's tired face broke into a broad grin and she held out her arms. "It is you."

"I said we would meet again," Isabeau said, and fell into her embrace.

Esther grimaced when they broke apart and she got a proper look at Isabeau.

"Canary Girl," she teased, swiping her thumb over Isabeau's cheek.

"I know." Isabeau resisted the urge to rub her face.

Inside the factory, her job was to fill shells. That meant working with trinitrotoluere, without adequate protective clothing, in a crowded space with little ventilation, and prolonged exposure to the nitric acid had turned her skin yellow.

Like a canary.

She wasn't the only one – anyone exposed to TNT suffered the same fate – and the bright yellow of their skin had led to people nicknaming them Canary Girls.

When the war was over, when Isabeau could leave the factory, then her skin would eventually return to its normal colour. Many other Canary Girls wouldn't be so lucky. Several women that Isabeau had worked with over the year had already died from TNT poisoning, and she suspected that many more would be left with permanent health problems.

"Yellow suits you," said Esther, smiling.

"It'll suit you too, if you're filling shells."

"I'm not. I'm lacquering fuses, but I suppose that could change."

"How long have you been here?" Isabeau asked.

"Tonight's my first shift. Sarah said we had to help, so here we are."

"You're still together, then." Isabeau was pleased.

Esther's eyes sparkled. "Absolutely."

"And?"

"And we're madly in love, if that's what you're asking."

"I'm really glad to hear that."

"How about you? Did you meet anyone?"

Isabeau shook her head. "I didn't look."

Nearly a full century had passed since Ruth's death, and Isabeau no longer felt the agony of it in the same way, but there were so many scars on her heart that she didn't feel capable of giving it to anyone else.

Maybe one day, if she was ever ready, but not now.

Esther looked up at the sky. "How long do you think this war will go on?"

"Who knows? Sometimes it seems that people never get tired of trying to kill each other. But even when it does end, this country will carry the scars for a long time."

"Another factory was hit by enemy air raid last week. A lot of people died," said Esther, still looking up at the sky as if she expected to see Zeppelins blotting out the stars.

"Munitions factories are key centres of war production. I'd be surprised if the enemy wasn't targeting them," Isabeau replied.

"I know, but it's frightening, isn't it? Even we're not immune to being blown up."

Isabeau touched the dog tags around her neck. "Yes," she said softly. "It is frightening."

Esther sighed and adjusted her head covering. "Looks like our time is up. Back to work."

When they went back inside, four women had started to sing, their voices managing to cut through the constant din of machinery, and it wasn't much, but it lifted Isabeau's flagging spirits.

Sometimes, someone would play the piano to increase morale. Singing was very popular, and many of the female workers had developed football teams, giving them all something to look forward to when they weren't slogging away at the machines.

As Isabeau returned to her station, she passed a girl, no more than sixteen, struggling to lift a heavy shell. She'd been here nearly twelve hours already, on her feet the whole time with little food or water, and her strength was starting to fail. Isabeau took the shell from her and carried it to where it needed to be, smiling briefly at the girl as she called her thanks.

She passed the singing women, who had now launched into a Christmas carol, and surprise almost made her stop in place.

Inside the factory, the days – or nights, in Isabeau's case – blurred together until it was hard to even remember what month it was. She'd completely forgotten that it was December. Christmas was coming.

How many of the women working here had male relatives on the front line? Most – if not all. These were mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, even grandmothers, staunchly doing their bit, and they almost certainly all knew someone off fighting in another country.

It would be a hard Christmas for them all.

Food shortages were rampant, and prices for available food had soared. Women working in the factories were earning roughly three pounds a week, and many of them were struggling.

Isabeau sighed internally as she made her way back to Room 42, where at least a hundred and fifty other girls and women worked – filling, fusing, and packing the explosive shells. All of them now had the same yellow skin as Isabeau. Unlike Isabeau, they wouldn't all survive the poisoning.

But they worked without complaint, all of them determined to help the war effort, and though Isabeau had barely had a chance to learn most of their names, she was fiercely proud of them all.

They endured brutally long shifts, on their feet almost the entire time, handling poisonous and explosive substances without the proper protection, with little food to keep them going, they faced the hostilities from remaining male workers who didn't believe that women had any right to be here and weren't capable of doing the work, and as soon as their shift was over, they returned to the temporary accommodation to snatch what little sleep they could – or take care of their babies if they were nursing mothers – and then it was back to work again.

Isabeau hoped that the country would remember the sacrifice that its women had made, just as much as it would remember the sacrifice of the men. Only time would tell.

She was almost at Room 42 when it exploded.

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