Todd held the envelope in his hand with a gentle carefulness. It had his name written plainly upon its front in black ink—"To Mr. Sweeney Todd of Fleet Street"—but with a simplistic sort of elegance that accompanied only a lady's penmanship. The barber's expression was contorted with dark curiosity. What woman would write him a letter?

No, he corrected himself. What sane woman would write him a letter? He didn't make a habit of strolling about the streets of London in broad daylight, so he didn't have multitudes of acquaintances (—at least ones that lived, that is). He was much more taciturn than the average man, too, so he wasn't one to strike up invigorating conversation with strangers. Why would someone leave a letter in his parlor? And furthermore, how did that someone manage to slip it amongst possessions on the little vanity that he so closely watched, all without his notice?

The barber made a quiet noise of genuine puzzlement. With a sleek razor in hand, he slit the envelope across its top. After he lovingly folded his blade and tucked it safely away in its holster, he pried it open and spent a moment to inspect its contents. From how neatly it had been folded, he confirmed that it was indeed a letter, and from the lack of wear in the parchment, it seemed that it was fairly new.

Frowning, Mr. Todd slowly pulled out the letter and placed its envelope upon the vanity beside the photographs of Johanna and Lucy, those framed and safe behind smooth glass, now grayed windows to a life once lost. Unsure as to whether he wished to open it, his thumb rested underneath the flap of the first fold, waiting as he pursed his lips with both hesitance and impatience alike. A few moments had passed before Todd finally flipped it backward. Without even seeing the other two thirds, he knew that his conjecture about the writer's gender was correct. The neat curvature of the letters that composed "Dear Mr. Todd" gave it away entirely. Slightly nonplussed, he ever so carefully opened the rest of the letter and began to read.

Dear Mr. Todd, it said,

I understand that you have more than a bit on your mind lately. I'm not quite one to enjoy the process of giving you or anyone even more to think about, but I thought that this might relieve you of some of it. Or, perhaps it won't, and I'm wrong in assuming so. It wouldn't be the first time, and it surely won't be the last.

This letter could either be a fatal mistake or a wonderful blessing. I'm not sure which just yet. Time will tell, I suppose.

There aren't any delicate ways. I hope that you'll bear with me when I say that the wise thing to do would be to brace yourself. (Todd's eyebrow quirked.) Sit down or lean against a wall. Either would do. I advise this for a reason, so don't go blaming someone else if something breaks.

Your Lucy, Mr. Todd, is alive.

The initial shock. Oh, the initial shock. Breathing stopped; his grip on the parchment tightened to the point of tearing it clear in half; he sunk unceremoniously to his knees, choking silently his own shouts of rage. It took all he had to keep from shredding the letter and setting it aflame. It took all he had to keep from storming out into the streets of London and slitting every dishonorable throat that passed him by. It took everything, everything, to keep himself from violently shaking, and yet his eyes continued to read.

Your Lucy, Mr. Todd, is alive. I know that you probably think it a lie… in fact, I know that you must think it a lie (for who would trust an unsigned letter with no return address?), but please, you must believe me. I've seen her. She wanders about the streets, Fleet Street quite often, aimless and begging for pennies because she hasn't got any of her own. She's mad, Mr. Todd. Mad and alone. The poison didn't take her life. It took her mind.

I don't know why you weren't told before. Perhaps it was because of your coldness. Perhaps because it was assumed that you couldn't handle it. Or maybe it was because someone wanted you protected from that awful truth. Either way, you have knowledge of it now. Do what you will. Guilt has been absolved.

— a shadow

Todd was hunched on all fours, his back curled into an arch as his fingers clawed at the wooden floorboards. The letter—that off-white piece of parchment smeared in black and folded so precisely—stared him so eagerly in the face, nearly pressed against his nose. He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to glimpse it again as long as he lived. But he couldn't stop himself from seeing those soft, cursive words that told a story so sharp that it cut into the very flesh of his chest to reach his hardened heart.

"No." It was forcefully rasped into the air of the parlor. Todd barely had a voice to speak with.

Locks of black hair fell into his face. Sweat began to collect upon his brow. He was shaking, his jaw was clenched, his teeth were bared, his muscles were so taut that it was painful to keep himself in such a way—oh, but he deserved this pain! How could he believe such a lie about Lucy?—and the world around him wouldn't stop spinning. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Shouldn't. He felt so sick.

"God, no!" snarled Sweeney Todd, rage flooding the network of veins that ran throughout his pale body. He could feel his own pulse as it escalated, his temples throbbing as blood flowed so angry-hot that it simmered beneath his skin. "Lies… all lies. What London harlot dares torture me with these lies?" Eyes closed tightly, so tightly that he saw spots, Todd howled into the vacant shop and banged his fists against the floor. "What bloody London harlot dares torture me with these goddamned lies?!"

In an instant, he was out the door and down the stairs at a hurried walk. His fellow Londoners passed him with looks of curiosity over their dark and dirty faces. Hideous heads with sunken eye sockets reared, bodies cinched up in pretty corsets and pampered in slick, expensive suits, watching him as he stalked down cobblestone paths at an unbeatable pace. His breathing was ragged and his eyes held a murderous gleam, but such disbelief and such anger had overcome him that he had to leave. He had to know. He had to. Had to. There was something that he just had to see.

Houses and streets and people alike blurred together. Nothing but grays, shades and shades of endless and nearly indistinguishable grays; a perpetual haze of monotony. Only a stray shock of white appeared in their midst. A streak of light, a mark of lost softness, a reminder of forgotten innocence.

And now a stray bloom of yellow managed to flourish in that tossing, swaying sea. It was a yellow that used to be as vivid and bright and golden as fresh fields of wheat. It was a yellow that was now dull and limp and dead, enveloped by shabby, tattered, and mottled gray clothes.

"Alms! Alms! Spare a penny, sir? Spare a single coin? Pretty madam, haven't got a penny for a poor woman, would you?"

Todd released a shuddering breath that he didn't know he had been holding. Without words, he watched the woman as she ambled down a crowded avenue. Her hat hid her face away from sight, but he knew it. The yellow hair that peeked out from beneath its tattered reach told him so.

He followed her. He didn't know why. Perhaps it was to further allow that inevitable sort of heartbreak to pierce him like no other pain could. Perhaps it was because he saw the shadow of his Lucy in the broken woman before him. Perhaps it was because he wanted to believe that this wasn't real. Or perhaps he craved this intangible closure, something that he couldn't quite touch and would never truly possess.

She turned around just once, and for a split second, their eyes met as two souls collided. Darkness, white, and mottled gray meshed as a world without color, a world unsaturated and dreary with its thick stratus clouds. Therein lay a vision. Therein lay the rich, vivid colors of the past. The chapped lips, the dry and pallid skin, and the stringy strands of hair evaporated into nothing.

The barber remembered his wife. He remembered her clearly. She was a delicate woman of just under four-and-twenty; so soft, so young, and not so quite lost, but still so beautiful. Her innocent smiles, the lovely dresses she wore, the roundness of her face, the shyness of every gesture and the smoothness of her lips…

And now, her odd walk, her croaky voice, the way she pleaded with the vermin that served as passersby…

"Lucy," he whispered, "oh, God, my Lucy, what has this filthy world done to you?"

The beggar woman extended her hand. Rough calluses covered the palm and the pads of her fingers. "A penny for a pitiful woman, sir? Or if it please you, mister, I could work for that pretty penny." The half-wink wasn't missed.

With his fists clenched so tightly, he wasn't sure if he could keep himself under leash, but they were released once the anger was safely quelled and locked away for later. "No," said Todd, his voice painfully terse. "Got nothing on me." And then he strode away, back into the depths of the monochrome crowd.

That letter. That damnable letter held truth. His Lucy was alive, breathing and stark raving mad, and there was nothing he could do to bring back the woman that he once knew. That Lucy was gone, vanished, but not dead; simply insane. She was a beggar out on the streets, pleading for coin and willing to sell herself for a penny. A penny. A single bloody penny!

Todd had thirsted for vengeance. It was his purpose, his meaning, and the reason that he still breathed. That thirst had grown, swelled, and consumed him with this revelation. Todd now strode in silent fury, and he understood. He now wanted to kill each and every demented and disease-ridden sack of flesh that walked the streets by his side, and he understood. He felt the cruelty of man now more than ever before, the sheer terribleness of what Turpin inflicted upon him—upon his beautiful wife—and he understood. He understood all too well.

Oh, Turpin had to die. He had wanted the man to perish in familiar surroundings, but at this very moment he wanted so much to barge into the judge's bloody manor with his razor in hand and just glide it clear across—

"Wait."

His pace slowed. Fleet Street was in sight.

"Hush, love. It'll be all right, now. We'll get him."

A deep breath. Tensing muscles. Mr. Todd's mind meandered away from the thoughts of his wife. Instead, he wondered why Mrs. Lovett hadn't come to see what had been the matter. He wondered why she hadn't come bounding up the stairs and burst through the parlor door at the first signs of his anger like she normally did. He wondered why he had seen very little of her today.

"Oh, Missus Lovett," he purred, puzzlement no longer plaguing his perfectly pale face, "such a daft and clever woman you are, but not quite as clever as you think and perhaps even dafter than you seem."

Todd stepped quietly into Mrs. Lovett's pie shop. His countenance was calm and neutral, as was his demeanor, and his breathing was slow and level. The barber could even be called serene.

"Oh, Mister Todd!" said Mrs. Lovett, quickly looking up from the counter. She seemed almost startled. "There you are. Heard a bunch of racket upstairs, I did, but when I went up to have a look, you were gone. You all right? Sounded awfully angry." She was covered in flour, her near pallor accentuated, and her curly brunet hair was messily pulled back and tied into a bun. Flecks of white dusted her cheeks.

"Fine, Missus Lovett," said Mr. Todd. "Just fine. Where's the boy?"

"Toby? He's at the market. Runnin' some errands for me. Ingredients for me pies." She cocked her head to the side in curiosity. A few locks of hair fell over her inquisitive brown eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Need a few items," he replied. "Thought to catch him and send him off. Suppose I'm late."

"Could wait 'til he comes back. I'm sure he won't mind going out again if there's somethin' in it for him. What sorts of things?"

Todd's eyes glanced about the room. "Got a pen?"

"Of course. Let me fetch one." Mrs. Lovett left the white-powdered countertop, taking the time to promptly dust herself as she went into the quaint little living area with the cheery, only slightly singed floral wall. Mr. Todd watched her as she searched, eyeing her light steps and the way that she couldn't seem to keep still. "Ah, here we are," said Mrs. Lovett, taking a slim, black pen out from under a few stray papers. Beside them was an inkwell, which she picked up and thoughtfully inspected before placing it back on the desk and muttering, "Not much left."

"It's fine, Missus Lovett," said Todd from the doorway. "Just write what I tell you to."

"All right, Mister T." She snatched a nearby piece of parchment, dipped the pen in the pewter inkwell, and then poised over that crisp, off-white sheet beneath her slender hands.

"Pomade. Cologne—the perfumer's newest, called 'shadow's elegance.' Lavender. Cleaning cloth. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Mrs. Lovett carefully laid the pen back upon the desk and hummed as she folded the list. So quick, so precise. "Here you are, love," she said, handing it to him with a meek smile. "Going to wait 'til he comes back?"

Mr. Todd was still. The parchment was cool and coarse in his hand. "No. I'll get it myself."

"Need a few shillings? I've got some to lend." Mrs. Lovett slipped past him and began to fish down her blouse for the purse that she had lifted off Pirelli's corpse. As she was opening the small, red pouch between her breasts, Mr. Todd gently put his free hand upon her shoulder. From there, it climbed to the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin with fond caresses.

"Missus Lovett," he muttered, "we need to talk." With a powerful yet tender grip, he guided her back into the room from which she had come and then pressed her against the wall, just near the door. He had a clear view of potential customers from this angle.

Mrs. Lovett had put the purse back in its proper place, for she seemed to be taken aback by his hand resting so casually on her skin. "Now, what's all this about?" Her surprise was evident with her slightly higher tone of voice—and was that a taste of dread? "Thought you said you had errands to run."

Todd simply nodded. It was a mechanical movement, as many of his responses tended to be when she spoke. His attention was focused on the parchment that he held. The list in his other hand was open, unfolded, and bare to his ravenous eyes. A wonderful curvature. Black ink. The quirk of how certain letters seemed to blend into one another.

"Such unique handwriting," he remarked, his voice soft and low. His lips twitched to form a small smirk. "Why, so unique, in fact, that I believe I'd remember it anywhere. And come to think of it…"

His hand encircled her throat and constricted.

"… I do believe I've seen it somewhere before."

Beneath her flesh, Mr. Todd could feel her pulse quicken. He felt her swallow. What little color she had fled her cheeks in a rush. "What do you mean, love?"

In a flash of brilliant silver, his hand had shifted to the side and a fresh blade rested against her. The parchment was on the floor, next to his shoe, now a forgotten and crinkled ball. "Missus Lovett, my dear, I don't think you quite… get it." The razorblade pressed to her neck. Blood welled. Thin red lines seeped from the minor incision and trickled downward, clashing against the paleness of her collarbone.

"Ah," she breathed, trying so hard not to swallow and yet trying so hard to spill everything at once.

Todd's smirk endured it all. "Good, you got it. Glad to see we understand one another. Now, tell me… what possessed you to lie?"

"I never lied." Mrs. Lovett seemed so insignificant before him now, and yet she played such a grand role in his still unfolding plot. Was this irony? "No, not at all. Mister T, please, I never lied."

This did not satisfy him. "You lied to me."

"Said she took the poison—she did!—but never lied. No, I didn't lie!"

"You knew that she lived," hissed Mr. Todd. The way that she was so still beneath his grip angered him further. He wanted her to writhe, to fitfully squirm, and to beg to be released, but she didn't. "You lied to me, my pet."

"Never said that she died, Mister Todd," she insisted. "I never lied, but better you should think she was dead. Death is better than being like her—no marbles at all and weak in the head. She's lost now, totally lost, and the woman that once was is now gone." Mrs. Lovett stared at him, at him, truly and fully and completely. It was as though whatever fate he decided to hand to her, she would accept it without qualm. Her brown eyes voiced that she didn't want to die, for fear clamored within them so deep, but she didn't struggle. Only her eyes and her cautious, shuddering breaths dispelled that calm.

Sweet memories of his wife flooded him, warm and comforting and glimpses of yellow, and then the sight of that gnarled, gray woman, the shadow of the girl that he once loved. Lucy and the beggar. Lucy and the talk of a madwoman. Lucy and the pleas of a corner cobblestone whore. Lucy and her death.

"Mister Todd." The sheer frailness of her voice snagged his attention, a contrast to her customary audacity; it made his face nearly soften with what little concern he did hold for her. Mrs. Lovett was shaking now, and blood trickled leisurely down her chest. Such a shade of crimson against stark white and silver. "I did it for a reason. I was only thinking of you. You were so angry before, so angry and so rash, and when I told you of her tale and what Turpin did, I was afraid that you'd—"

"Afraid?"

"Afraid that you'd go off. Afraid that you wouldn't think, that you'd just go and do it right then and you'd be dead. Hanged. The gallows'd take you and the judge would ruin you a second time."

They way that she continued to stare straight at him made the barber almost unsure in his fit of ire. His expression changed; cool bewilderment sluiced him over—could she truly be so willing to risk herself for his own wellbeing? The pies, the cover-ups, the assurances, her gentle kisses upon his cheek! Oh, what a wonder—but only for a fleeting moment before it vanished completely. Her implications were dangerous. It was not exactly what she said, but how she said it, and the strength of the sentiment that lay beneath those chosen words.

"I'm not dead," said Todd. "I'm very much alive. Life is for the living, is it not? And I'm living it rather well."

"I was thinking of you," she murmured. "I was only thinking of you. Didn't want a rope 'round your stubborn neck." Her voice was almost gone. Whether it was because of the blood that was still trailing down her throat or because of the fear that was beginning to overtake her, he wasn't certain. Mrs. Lovett's eyes still gazed at him, beseeching and frightened and so very dark, and after a particularly hard swallow, she confessed. "Yes, I lied. I lied, Mister Todd," she breathed, "and I lied because of you. Always a fondness, you know."

A new flavor of rage was introduced. His grip around her constricted ever so slightly, finger nails digging into her skin and squeezing forth more blood from the wound of her throat, and the razor bit only a tad closer. How could she say such things? As mad as the rest! But madder than Lucy?

"Missus Lovett, you arouse many things within me," said Mr. Todd, teeth bared and body uptight and black hair so windswept and wild, "but love is not one of them."

It was at that moment that Todd's peripheral vision caught movement outside the pie shop beyond the threshold of where he stood. A middle-aged gentleman was moving toward the stairs that led to his tonsorial parlor, elaborate cane in hand. After looking upward at the balcony above for a moment or two, the gentleman then proceeded to climb the stairs.

"You're a lucky woman, Missus Lovett," whispered Mr. Todd. He had made a point to close the distance between his face and hers. Barely an inch remained, and he could feel the flutter of her erratic breaths. "You're lucky that I still have use for you. You're lucky that there'd be too big a mess to clean up before unwanted eyes happened to glimpse the blood. You're a very, very lucky woman. And now, if you'll excuse me, my pet, your 'supplies' must be tended to." Hastily, he wiped the blade upon her corset and withdrew his reddened hand. Taking long, quick strides, he left the pie shop in utter silence.

The barber heard Mrs. Lovett fall to the floor before the door closed behind him. He didn't look back.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting. Stepped out for a bit. Fresh air and all. Tends to get stuffy in here."

"It's quite all right. Mister Todd, is it?" The gentleman was polite. Brown-haired and chin lined with stubble, he bowed properly with respect and allowed his heavy coat to be taken. "Much has been said about your skill, and I've decided to try it for myself. A simple shave is all I require."

"Of course. I'd be more than happy to oblige." Todd gestured to the chair in the center of the room, his red hand hidden away by the white of a cleaning cloth. An unfolded razor was held in the other, a single, dark-colored droplet hanging from its glistening edge. "Now, sit you down, good sir, and let me show you how a proper artist uses his knife."