I felt the pain. Strangely, it didn't feel like torture. If I couldn't be with this man, I would die by his hand as so many others had. At times like this, it seemed strange to think I was promoting cannibalism, like my heart was at war with my body and mind.
As I began to lose consciousness, the oven door creeked open and I felt myself being lifted out of it. I looked up, expecting to see Mr. Todd holding me, but he was not there. Of course. He would have forgotten me wouldn't he? And these hands were too gentle. The world was dark briefly, then slowly returned to focus.
I had no idea where I was. But the woman that had saved my life was by my side. Her hand was in my own, but I could barely feel it. "Madame?"
I stared up at her, trying to speak, to tell her I was alright. I didn't know her, but I was certain she had saved my life. I looked around, trying to figure out where I was. This didn't look like the bakehouse; it didn't even look like anywhere on Fleet Street.
She smiled at me. "We're going home. To Paris. To the Opera Populaire. You'll be safe there Madame. I was on vacation; I heard you scream and… I went in to see if you were alright. When I got down there, I saw the oven shut. Shoulda reported him, but I was focused on saving your life. I have a friend that can help with that when we're home. For now though, rest. I've been told that's what you need.
I grimaced, trying to move my hand to hold hers though I couldn't grasp it. Was it broken from my struggle with the door? Or was this just a result of the fire? Either way, I would wait for her to say I could try and do something. One thing was certain though, one way or another. If those burns didn't heal like I wanted them to, my baking days were over. There would be no redemption, no chance to prove I wanted to be what most people called truly good. If this didn't heal, my legacy would be that of the woman who baked others into pies. But I had learned my lesson now. Fire could change a person both inside and out.