And here we have a strange story from me... it is strange because it's not written in first person and it involves a serious plot. I do not own Sweeney Todd nor any of its plots and characters, though I do wish I did. Some things to clear up first...
1. The Judge and the Beadle are dead
2. Lucy is dead... the poison really killed her.
3. Johanna met briefly with Sweeney before running off to America with Anthony
4. Toby never existed
If something else comes up, I'll be sure to fix it. Thanks, and enjoy!
He stood by the window, aimlessly polishing the silver razor to a fine gleam, silence being his only companion. Watching the street became a favorite pastime for the dreary barber, as he was able to pick and choose his next victims. Not only was this done out of malicious hate, but he also had an obligation to keep the pie shop running. No one had yet honored the barber with their blood today, and he was getting quite impatient. In a fit of frustration, he shoved the blade back into its holster and began pacing the room, irritated.
The bare room left quite a bit of pacing area. Oh yes, he was known for this—known for having a reputation that his shop does not show. Years of neglect have piled up on the sparse furniture, creating an extremely glum mood. Why the barber only kept a chair, a vanity, a trunk, and a set of silver razors to his name had baffled the townsfolk since he first opened shop. However, his cheery façade usually drives their notions away as he welcomes them into their seat of death…
The barber sighed as he retired to his chair. How many had he killed this month? This week? How long until London discovered its inhabitants missing? So many thoughts rushed through his weary mind. He shut his eyes and rested his head back, taking in the silence. How peaceful it was…
"G'morning, Mr. T!" she exclaimed, bolting through the door.
He cringed as the bell tinkled cheerfully and the familiar patter of footsteps were heard echoing in his soundless shop.
"Ara," the barber whined, "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"No, sir! Mrs. Lovett's swamped in the cellar, though she won't let me help her… told me to mind the shop and keep you company."
"Did she now?" Sweeney grumbled.
"Aye," she replied. "'Course, shop don't open 'til noon, so it's just you and me, Mr. T."
He sat in silence, slowly breathing in and out. One might have though he was asleep, even, but Ara knew better. She pulled over a stool from the corner and set it by the grouchy barber. The sunlight caught in her strawberry blonde hair beautifully and encircled her with a halo of light, like an angel. With the side of her hand, she wiped the dust off of the seat to keep it from catching on her pale blue dress and folded her hands gracefully while Sweeney rested.
"Oh, Mr. T, why are you always so down?" Ara sighed, though she didn't want to know the answer.
"Things happened long ago. 'Tis nothing to think about now. I try to forget sometimes, but it's just something that will haunt me for good."
"What sorts of things?" she whispered, excitement in her tone.
"Love," Sweeney mumbled. "Loss, pain, revenge, joy, and loss again."
"But what exactly—"
"Arabelle!" called a familiar voice. "Ara! Ara, where are you?"
The bell chimed to announce the entrance of a very drained Mrs. Lovett. Hours of working had taken its toll on her, from the flour and random spots on her apron to the hazardous mess of unkempt hair. She looked like she'd seen a ghost, though Sweeney took no notice of her grand entrance. In fact, he hardly opened his eyes.
"I'm here, I'm here," Ara said, jumping up.
"Oh, Ara dear," Mrs. Lovett panted, "We seem to be in shot supply of herbs and spices… must've used 'em all up and forgot to get some more. Can you be a doll and run down to the market and find me some more?"
"Sure thing, ma'am," Ara replied, already heading towards the door. "What kinds did you want, again?"
"Pepper, thyme, salt, oregano, and parsley. But hurry!"
Mrs. Lovett threw Ara a basket with a coin purse inside. The young girl quickly bolted out the door just as fast as she'd come in earlier, never even stopping to say goodbye.
"Phew, good thing that's taken care of," Mrs. Lovett sighed, leaning against the back of the chair.
"How long do you think it'll take her to figure it out?" Sweeney asked sternly.
"Take to figure what out?" she questioned.
"Why business is what it is," he replied flatly. "Just now she was onto me about my lack of 'joyfulness'."
"Oh, Mr. T," Mrs. Lovett reassured, "The poor girl's hardly seen fourteen winters. She's young. Someday, yes, we'll just have to tell her."
"That is," he added gravely, "If she does not figure it out on her own."
"Well, yes, that could always happen, too."
The two returned to their silent positions, back to back. Sweeney was right, and Mrs. Lovett knew it well.
"You know," he began, breaking the long silence, "You never told me how she came about. All you've ever said is that she's your assistant, but I know you better than that."
"Oh, well, it's quite a bit of a story," Mrs. Lovett began, reminiscing the past.
"We've got time, Mrs. Lovett."
"Oh, all right," she muttered. "See, it all started a few years ago. One night I was comin' home from me shopping and as I was puttin' away ingredients, I found little Ara curled up under the counter. Poor thing, she was all skin and bones and sickly pale. Told me she ran away from the orphanage and had nowhere to go. So I offered her a place here in me home, under the conditions that she'd help out in the shop. She was willin' alright,
and that's how she wound up here."
"Were you making enough to cover the both of you?" Sweeney asked casually.
"Just barely," she replied, pulling a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Then after you came along, well… we're here now, aren't we?"
He only grumbled in reply, but it was more like he was agreeing with her.
"Who's on the menu today?" Mrs. Lovett asked, changing the subject.
"Oh," Sweeney began, glancing over at his appointments on the wall, "Looks to me like the apothecary's assistant, the potato grower, and the ghastly man selling fake amulets in the back alley. Hm, and I think it's about time for that raunchy grocer, as well. He always tried to get by me free, and I'm done with him.
"Better get out the big knives for him…" Mrs. Lovett thought out loud, flicking flour off her dress. "You don't suppose you won't have some free time later? Help me in the cellar, won't you?"
"Of course," he muttered, staring off into space.
"I 'preciate it, Mr. T."
She turned and walked out of the shop quietly, leaving the poor barber alone to wallow in his melancholy.