It was always cold in the doorway to Sweeney Todd's shop, but that didn't usually bother her. After all, Mrs. Lovett was usually dressed warm. But at nighttime she wore a nightgown as old as the hills, and it was tatty and ripped in some places. She wore a shawl, too, but it was old as well—not good for warmth, if that was what you wanted.
She knocked on Mr. Todd's door with vigor—she wasn't entirely sure if this was because she was anxious to be warm again (which, she mused, wasn't likely to happen if she entered—the shop was just as cold as it's doorway) or if she really wanted to see him (that was plausible. She always wanted to see him).
It was probably a bit of both.
In any sense, Mrs. Lovett knocked at his door vigorously, her tiny fists making as much noise as possible without waking the neighbors. There was no answer.
It figures that the only night he actually sleeps is the one night I want to talk to him, she thought.
Undiscouraged, she knocked slightly louder and said "Mr. T? Are you awake in there?"
Her voice was quiet but forceful. She knew that, if he were awake, he would hear her. Then again, she wouldn't put it past him to completely ignore her even if he could hear her. He didn't like her company much, and even though she knew that she still craved his presence. "Mr. T, if you're awake, please answer the door. It's bloody freezing out here."
Nothing. She then tried the doorknob. To her surprise, the door shifted and opened a crack. "I'm coming in, Mr. T," she warned.
No answer.
She opened the door as carefully and quietly as possible. It creaked a bit but not loudly enough to wake anyone up. The shop was pitch dark, save for a large patch of moonlight shining through the window that draped itself over half of the ruby-red barber's chair.
In the chair was a man. Mrs. Lovett approached him warily, knowing it was definitely Mr. Todd—he wouldn't have been sloppy enough to leave a body in the chair. And, although she knew they were going to their deaths, Mrs. Lovett hoped that Sweeney Todd never positioned any of his customers in the manner he was currently sitting, because it looked terribly uncomfortable. His legs were slung over one arm of the chair (the part engulfed in darkness) and his head hung over the other side, his face bathed in moonlight.
"Mr. Todd? Are you really asleep?" She asked.
Upon closer inspection, Mrs. Lovett saw that he was indeed asleep—his eyes were shut and his breathing was even. "You really are asleep, then?" she asked, knowing he was.
Why would he play a trick on her? There was no need.
She knelt down beside the chair and nestled her hands into her lap. Her face leaned in towards him so she could get a better look at his sleeping face.
A strand of his chaotic hair had fallen over his eyes and she longed to brush it away but resisted the urge. His face was chalky pale in the moonlight, his eyelashes casting shadows down his cheeks.
And he was beautiful, she thought.
"Mr. T?" She whispered. His steady breathing answered her. "Mr. T, I couldn't sleep."
Mrs. Lovett was almost relieved that he wasn't awake, because had he been awake he would surely have kicked her out by now. Or he would have glared at her and said mean things. This way, she could talk to him and see him—plus, his sleeping face was something she almost never saw. It was a marvel to look at.