iolet and Daisy. They were as sweet and pretty as their names would suggest, the pair of them as alike as two flower buds on a single stem. They were also joined, back-to-back, at the base of their spine.
Freaks, monsters — that’s what conjoined twins were called in 1908. And so their mother abandoned Violet and Daisy to the care of her midwife, who immediately put the babies on exhibition in the back room of her pub, embarking on a course of blatant exploitation that would range from the Brighton seashore to Australian amusement parks, American sideshows, and eventually to the most phenomenal success in vaudeville’s history.
But Violet and Daisy were more than just an exhibit, of course. They were two distinct individuals with remarkably harmonious personalities: Violet thoughtful yet candid, Daisy impulsive and easygoing. Above all, they were sisters.
In a story packed to the brim with questions about individuality, identity, and exploitation, Sarah Miller delivers an engrossing, compassionate portrait of two sisters whose bonds were so sacred that nothing — not even death — would compel Violet and Daisy to break them.