He had transformed the chair. Her Albert's old chair, long uncared for, untouched, would now serve a purpose greater than most of those who would perch upon it's worn, dusty seat. There were gears now, salvaged from the blacksmith's rubbish bin left on the corner of Wexter Lane, gears that propelled the death seat back in a rough, jerky dip; a horrific waltz to the basement of the establishment by a stomp on the grated pedal to the right of the chair. The trap door covered in spoiled wooden planks would swing low, opening to the cold cement floor of the bake house below.
Nellie Lovett coughed as she tossed a lumpy pile of dough onto the heavily floured table, the white powder mushroom clouding into her face. Shooing the run-away flecks in the air with a fingerless gloved hand, she picked up the unwashed wooden rolling pin and began to hammer away at the unpleasant pile slumped on the table. Rolling the pie crust to an abnormal one and a half inches thick, the baker molded the dough into the all-too-familiar pie cup basin and rolled it over in her hands, checking for bugs. It was one of her better days; most of the time she didn't bother checking, hoping that the miniscule amount of meat in the creatures would fill out some of the pie.
Finding the crust undisturbed by crawlers, Ms. Lovett continued on with the routine, slopping a small bit of gooey meat substance into the pouch of the basin, and then rolling out the crust topping.
Her thoughts drifted to the man upstairs as his heavy footsteps stomped down through the floorboards. Sweeney Todd was a mental case, she had decided earlier that day when he had bludgeoned Pirelli to death with an iron tea kettle in a cold moment of passion, but she would continue to house him upstairs, protecting him from more of the world's cruelties. She had sympathized that he had had enough of London's ill experience, and had settled on the plan to take him as a husband after laying eyes on him fifteen years before, when she was just a girl. If he could only get past this need— no, this obsession with the judge he might see that she wasn't a just a girl anymore…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the small chiming bells dancing happily on top of the door as it opened. She quickly tossed the newly stuffed pie into the tiny oven behind the counter and secured the hatch shut, then turned around to see who had entered— a rare happening.
"Ah, Toby. It's just you." The boy's brow furrowed noticeably and he bit his lower lip, a habit he had formed to express resentment and slight annoyance. "Come now, love, you know what I meant." She reassured him with a smile and dusted her hands off on her black dress, ignorantly smearing the flour over her front. "Not many days when that door opens save for Mr. T an' myself. Siddown, siddown! Make yourself comfy. There's something I wanna talk to you about."
The dark haired boy eagerly rushed to the square table, sliding into the booth and looking up at the baker with wide, expectant eyes. "Yes ma'am?"
Her eyes found the broken remains of the pie crust Toby had decimated minutes earlier, then flickered back up to meet his chestnut stare. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, and then, remembering the fear and pain on his youthful face after the contest earlier that day when that Italian had taken him into the back, asked "D'ya know where Pirelli's gone, son?"
"Well, Mister Todd told me he'd been 'called away…'" His voice trailed off, uncertain, and his stare shifted towards the ceiling curiously.
Ms. Lovett nodded curtly. "Yeah, he's gone, love, taken to the streets not a few minutes ago. He was ashamed, loosing that contest to Mr. Todd in front of the whole town, the way I figure it."
"So he's left me, then." There was no hint of confusion in Toby's response. He knew he was alone, abandoned again. He swallowed noisily and clenched his jaw tight. "It's back to the workhouse, I suppose." He began to get up from behind the table, but Ms. Lovett stopped him with a hand to the shoulder, hurriedly scooting into the booth beside him and slinging her arm around his neck.
"Now now, no need for that just yet. I've had a thought, upstairs with the barber."
The boy looked over at her, knowing, but not hoping. He had learned that hoping caused disappointment more often than not. "Yes, ma'am?" He repeated.
She lowered her head until she was eye-level with him, and gave him another of her sweet as pie smiles. "How'd you like to come help me out around the shop? There's an extra room 'round the hall, and you could earn a few wages for yourself. Least I wouldn't beat you or nothin'…" She muttered the last bit, and felt the boy chuckle under her arm. He looked up at her with a boyish grin she hadn't seen it this town for years."
"Alright." He agreed simply, trying to contain himself. "I think I'd like that."
"You'd like it very much, I think." She replied with a smirk, ruffling his short hair and easing out from behind the table. "Let's go get you all settled in, then."
As she walked towards the now-occupied bedroom of the first floor, Nellie Lovett finally felt content with herself: she now had someone to care for that might actually care back.