"Let me be, Mrs Lovett," he whispered, and wrenched the door open, hurrying away up the stairs. He would sit up there for hours, not moving, just staring out the window waiting for his next unlucky customer, the next moment when he could unfold his beloved razor and pretend he was sinking it into the flesh of old Judge Turpin.
And then there would be more work for me, me and my aching bones, working the grinder all night and day, sprinkling herbs, rolling pastry, doing everything I'd done for years, only with him strolling through my head unbidden every minute. Even when I slept.
Those strolls were always the sweetest, along by the sea, or just through the market, his arm on my waist, his mouth by my ear. And there were dreams when we weren't strolling at all, but his hands still touched my waist, his lips were still soft at my ear.
He slept too, of course, untroubled sleep, looking peaceful as an angel, his poor haunted eyes o longer having to look out on a world where there was nobody there for him but me.
It was easy to imagine making sure he stayed peaceful forever. All it would take was a flick of his dear friend, a flash of silver, and the blood could be cleaned up, heaven knew. And as for his poor dead body… Well, waste not want not, I've always said. Them pies would be the sweetest pies of all.
I'd imagined it plenty of times, each one different. Sometimes he begged for forgiveness, for mercy, other times his poor bloodshot eyes stared into mine and he thanked me, poor thing, slipping away from me to be with his Lucy. Sometimes I followed him, pressing the beautiful silver to my own throat, imagining myself as beautiful and pale as his little Johanna. But my sweetest dreams of his death always ended with a kiss.
I imagined so many different ways of ending his poor, sad, empty life that I hardly realised myself what I was doing until I was halfway up the stairs to his room. But it was all for the best, I told myself. When he realised his Lucy wasn't there waiting for him, there'd be nothing he could do. And I could be left alone with the taste of him wrapped in pastry, the ghosts of his hands at my waist. And his beautiful eyes, staring into mine, whenever I stopped working long enough to think.
The blade was smooth and warm beneath my fingers. I could see why he loved the silly things so much, really.I ran a fingertip along the edge of the blade and drew a tiny drop of blood. My eyes closing, I could almost feel his skin parting as I ran the razor across it, and the warmth of his pitiless blood running over my hands.
He caught me by surprise, his hand fluttering at my waist like he weren't sure what it was doing there.
"That's enough of that, love," he whispered, caressing my fingers. My heart was pounding at his touch, but my hand went limp and his lucky friend dropped to the floor, leaving behind his sweet death.
"There, there, my pet."
His lips were soft at my ear, his breath warm on my face. I turned my head, trying to fill it with something other than his sweet smell.
There were many times I had imagined his taste buried in a pie, bu6t his lips as they brushed across mine were the sweetest taste of all.
…
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