The Widow Ash lived in the island city with her two young daughters and no one else. There was once a time when their family had been wealthy, and their house had been filled with friends and laughter, with wine and celebration. But the good master Ash had passed away, and with him passed the fortune of the Ash family until all that remained was the home, the widow, and her two children, neither of whom had seen their fifth year.

On the last month of winter, early one morning, the Widow was awakened from her slumber by the cries of a child. There were often hungry children wandering the street, and because there were no longer any servants in the house, the Widow herself was obliged to go to the door to chase them off. When she opened the door on the cold morning she was surprised to discover that there were no urchins begging for food but a baby in swaddling clothes on her doorstep. The Widow very nearly shut the door, before a thought could take shape in her mind. It was true she did not need another mouth to feed, but how nice it would be, she mused, to have a servant girl again and (better yet) one who need not be paid.

Thus the Widow took in the girl, finding upon her a simple note with a name and a request that whoever should find her care for her. She raised the child, but not as a daughter, and the girl lived with the Widow and the sisters Ash not as family, but as a servant. When she became old enough to walk it was her duty to fetch things day and night for the Widow and her daughters. When she became tall enough it was her duty to clean the whole empty mansion. She was taught how to sew and mend, how to cook the meals for the family, and all the many ways in which the Widow demanded her home be maintained. The young girl was not given one of the many empty rooms, but instead had to sleep in a small alcove by the hearth.

This was how her youth was spent, and it gradually passed, so that the girl became a woman, knowing nothing but the life of a servant girl to her step-mother and her two step-sisters. The Widow treated the poor girl as if she were serving a queen, and as to the step-sisters, they seemed to take endless delight in heaping work upon her. Often times she would have to work late into the night mending garments, sitting in her tiny alcove with a kerosene lantern.

Moths would flutter about the light, and so she would have to stop and shoo them away. “Be careful, my little friends. Go find the light of the moon, for it will not harm you so.” And as she would sew, she would often admire the beautiful patterns on the moths’ wings. Sometimes during the day the Widow Ash would find a moth or two in her boudoir. “Horrid things,” she would say, and strike them dead with her fan. And the wicked Ash sisters would pick at her clothes and tell her she was as drab as a moth. “Careful or we shall swat you to death with a fan, little moth!”

Well, the girl did not have much time for herself, but she had some, and she had little enough of her own, but here and there she had scraps of cloth left from her sewing. Between all the chores and tasks, she was able to sew for herself a beautiful shawl of many patterns, modeled after the moths which sat with her on her long nights hard at work. She was quite pleased with it and the next day she wore it about the house.

Both sisters were immediately jealous and ran to their mother in anger. “Mother! Mother!” they shouted, “Why does she have a shawl so much prettier than ours?” The Widow Ash marched down to the hearth and ripped the shawl from the poor girl. “Wretched servant,” she said, “Stealing cloth for yourself from me. And after I give you a roof over your head and food to eat! I should turn you out onto the street!” Thus the Widow Ash gave the girl’s shawl to her daughters and for supper that night the poor girl had only hard bread and water.

That night the servant girl would have cried herself to sleep, but she had still more mending to do. So her tears fell onto her sewing and the moths fluttered about her, providing what comfort they could.

The following day the sisters decided to walk through town, so that they each might wear the lovely shawl and make all the other girls jealous. They spent many hours wandering the cobblestone streets, pretending to look into shop windows in order to admire their own appearance. It seemed to grow quite late in no time at all, and soon the gas lamps were being lit. The girls decided they must return home, but as they were making their way back to the mansion, they came across a dandy standing under one of the gas lights.

He greeted them cordially. “Good evening, my good ladies, and where might you be traveling dressed in such finery?”

Well, the gentleman was handsome, obviously of good birth, and wealthy besides, so the two sisters tittered to one another and bowed profusely and told him they were returning to their home (they took care to describe it as a mansion).

“Then I shall not delay your passage,” he said, “but for one question. I must know whence came the lovely shawl you wear about your shoulders.” And here he indicated the younger sister Ash, for it was she who wore the shawl at the time.

The girls tittered again and the elder sister Ash said, “Oh, it was but a small matter. My sister is as skilled as she is beautiful, and sewed it all herself!”

“That is quite an impressive talent, young lady,” he said. “If I may then beg you just one moment more, I think I should like nothing better than to see you sew a fine dress.” And here he produced from somewhere within his cloak voluminous quantities of silk and fine cotton. “I promise you silver for such a task, enough to make it worthwhile.”

Of course the wicked sisters agreed in a flash, and they were soon on their way home, where they wasted not a minute in setting the servant girl to work on a dress cut from the fine cloths the gentleman gave them. The Widow Ash soon learned of the offer, and the girls agreed that they should all split the gentleman’s silver. In but a matter of a day the dress was made, and the younger Ash sister slipped it on almost before the last thread was cut (it fit her body poorly, but she did not notice), and together the wicked sisters went out into the city again.

As before, they found the gentleman wandering beneath the gas lamps, but he immediately noticed the magnificently attired sister. “It is a masterwork, beyond what I could have hoped for. Here is your silver, but take caution. My silver is the purest sort, plucked from the light of the moon. Let no one lay dishonest hands on it, for the consequences are dreadful indeed.” Of course, the two girls barely heard any of this, and a moment later the gentleman produced yet more fine cloth. “But if it pleases you, I should like to see you sew a petticoat and parasol from such finery as this, for your skill is quite remarkable.”

Once again the girls rushed home. There the Widow Ash was waiting to shake the silver out of their clutches. “Come, come,” she said, “Greedy children, let us see what you have earned.” They fell thereafter to dividing the silver, as hyenas might quarrel over a corpse, for quite some many hours. When all this was done they took the fine cloth to the girl and set her again to the task of making a beautiful garment.

It took her no more than a day, but as she worked through into the early hours of dawn, a terrible scream echoed through the house. The Widow Ash came rushing to her daughters’ room, and there she found them sobbing in terror. Seemingly overnight the younger sister Ash’s hands had withered away and fallen off, leaving her with only a pair of stumps, twisted up like an ancient tree, at her wrists. “What have you done, you foolish child!” she said. “What have you been touching! I have told you both how carefully a lady must maintain her hands!” The Widow Ash then beat her two sobbing daughters about the head with her fan until they ceased crying.

By this time the petticoat and parasol were complete, and there was nothing else to do but for the elder Ash sister to slip on the garments and go about the city (the youngest, it was made clear, would not be seen in public thereafter). The petticoat did not fit her well, but the wicked sister did not notice, and wandered through the city for many hours until she found the gentleman under the glow of gaslight.

Again he marveled at the skill involved. “But where is the seamstress? I must pay only her and none other!”

Thinking quickly, the elder sister said, “My sibling was taken ill, good sir, but I sew nearly as well as she, and so I was able to finish it for her.”

The gentleman smiled and bowed his head. “Ah, yes, I perfectly understand. Well then, here is the silver I have spoken of before. Do not let it stray across the hands of anyone who lies, or the consequences shall be dire.” But the sister hardly listened, for this time he gave her twice as much silver as before. And then for a third time he produced fine silks. “But now the shawl that was so pretty seems to pale next to the dress and petticoat. Please, I implore you, if your sister cannot sew, then perhaps you can produce a shawl nearly as beautiful as the one before.”

And so the elder sister Ash took the cloth and ran straight home where her mother shook the silver from her hands. “Greedy child, what have you earned for us this time? Your wretched sister has done nothing but moan all day! I should hope this is sufficient recompense.” Thus they fell to squabbling and, even with no hands to grasp it, the younger sister Ash quarreled as well as her elders. But soon enough this was all over and they once again took the fine silks to the girl, to be sewn into a shawl.

Being a shawl, it only took her a matter of hours, and the Widow Ash snatched it from her fingers no sooner than it was finished. She and her elder daughter greedily ran their fingers over it, thinking of what riches were to come, while the younger sister Ash sat in a corner and quietly sobbed, as she had no hands with which to enjoy the fine garment.

The Widow and her daughters went to bed, leaving the poor girl with her usual allotment of work, plus what she had not done because she had been sewing fine cloth and silk. But when the sky began to lighten, once again the Widow Ash was awakened by the screams of her daughters. She rushed to their room and found them sobbing and screaming, for the elder daughter’s hands had, like the youngest, withered away and fallen off, leaving her with nothing but a pair of stumps, twisted up like an ancient tree, at her wrists. Once again the Widow Ash beat them about the head until they ceased crying. “Stupid wicked girls! Now you have both ruined your hands over some trifling foolishness! I do not know what you have been up to, but I’m sure you deserve it!”

With both her daughters in such a state, there was nothing more to do but for the Widow to wear the shawl around the city, and so she left her daughters at home and walked the streets until she met the strange gentleman by the glow of gaslight. He looked from the light to the shawl and he said, “We have never met, but I see another fine garment. Yet where is the seamstress? I can pay her and none other.”

“My daughters are sick,” snapped the Widow, “and besides all that, I taught them all they know. I sewed this myself.”

“Ah, I understand,” said the gentleman, and held out his hand as if to pass his payment to the Widow. As she eagerly reached for it, his hand darted out like a snake and took her wrists, twisting them around until the gas light pooled in her palms. “And now I am quite sure your daughters are unwell. You have fine hands, my lady, but they have never sewn a stitch, nor been raised to a single other task. You will take me straightaway to whomever has made these fine garments or I will lop your hands off here before the moon and the cloak of night!”

The Widow had no choice, and thus led the gentlemen to her house, which was a bedlam of sorrow and piteous cries from her daughters. She took him to the alcove where the servant girl slept and presented him to her. “Here,” she said, “here is your accursed seamstress! You can have her for all the good she’s worth!”

The gentleman ignored her, as only a gentleman can, and took the girl’s hand. “My little moth, I knew your wings from afar. My family is called Luna, and you are of my kin. Let me take you into the night and show you what you have inherited.”

The little moth girl took Luna’s hands, yet still felt sorry for her awful step-mother and wicked step-sisters. “Please, good sir,” she said, “I know they are not kind, but can you not grant them some mercy? It is cruelty to leave them all in such a state.” The gentleman was moved by her plea, but still wroth at the Ash family.

“You like to suck the blood of moths and spin lies, so now you may live on moths and spin empty nets.” And with this pronouncement he turned the step-mother and her wicked children into spider. The gentleman then lead the girl into the night, where together they would circle under the gas lamps and catch silver from the light of the moon.