"'Don't I know you,' she said," Mr T said blankly. He was holding Lucy, kneeling on the floor with her head in his lap. "You knew she lived."

"I was only thinking of you," I said tentatively, watching him closely. I stood still, frozen in spite of the heat emanating from my oven.

His next words formed slowly, each one almost clinging to his teeth before being spat out. "You lied to me."

"No, no, not lied at all," I said gently, my voice beginning to flow nice and calmly. Hoping he didn't notice the anxious undercurrent sticking to my words, hoping he wouldn't blame me. Hoping for so many impossible things. "Said she took a poison she did, never said that she died."

"Lucy," Mr T whispered. "I've come home again. Lucy…"

If he didn't hear a thing I said, I wouldn't be surprised, though it might be just as well in his current state. Not even Lucy had persuaded his bloodless fingers to unclench the silver tool of his trade. However, listening or not, I couldn't stop Lucy's story from spilling out and echoing around the hollow chamber.

"Poor thing, she lived but it left her weak in the head; all she did for months was just lie there in bed, should've been in hospital," I babbled soothingly, with as much sympathy as I could muster. "Wound up in Bedlam instead, poor thing."

My excuses bounced off the stone walls and down into the sewers without ever registering meaningfully in Mr T's ears. Acknowledgement wasn't present in that torturous mix of emotions engraving his face. Still as a grave, he just stared at Lucy like she was the only thing in his world. Lucy. Even covered in the grime of fifteen years wandering the London streets, yellow hair matted into filthy straw, Death was still kind to her. Not like the others I'd seen.

Slowly, Mr T raised his head and howled.

"Oh my God!"

The earnest anguish in his voice went right to my bones. He cradled her close in his despair, with all the care and tenderness I thought had been stripped from him forever. Even though that woman was the cause of the hopelessness lingering in his eyes, after all these years he still loved her. Still loved her. A crushing sensation, originating behind my ribs, soaked through the right side of my chest and dripped sickly into my stomach as I watched Mr T and Lucy. How could I deny him the truth now? All the truth.

"Better you should think she was dead. Yes, I lied, 'cause I love you." I closed my eyes as I confessed. We could still have a life together. Maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like he remembered, but we could get by. I know it.

But he only wailed, "Lucy, what have I done?!"

He had eyes only for the gutter rat bleeding out on my bakehouse floor. Anger spiked through me. Why did Mr T want her and not me? Lucy's torn, mouldy rags skilfully caught the dust on the floor, and her wane face was neatly scabbed from wind and cold; a desperate, scavenging, worthless pauper. Even the yellow hair he had loved so much was threadbare and discoloured. Yes, her old goodness and beauty may have shone through the bloodied tatters, but Mr T and I made a much better match. She was broken. He belonged with me.

"I'd be twice the wife she was. I love you," I repeated, more firmly. I would not be ignored this time. "Could that thing have cared for you like me?"

Mr T's head snapped up at the scorn tainting my voice. For a moment, I wondered if I'd gone too far. But while his eyes infused with a dark passion, my name replaced Lucy's on his lips.

"Mrs Lovett!" Mr T snarled, springing lightly to his feet and leaving Lucy huddled on the floor. "You're a bloody wonder! Eminently practical and yet appropriate as always."

The sudden, harsh vigour in his voice, accompanied by his entirely unfamiliar smile, alarmed me. The dull look was gone from his eyes, displaced by something frightening and bloodthirsty. He looked alive again. More worrisome, between his lean fingers, the silver handle of his faithful friend glinted in the firelight. Dreadful expectation tickled the sensitive skin on my throat as he prowled slowly towards me, and I trembled in anticipation of the smooth, cool slice. Quick and neat, like a kiss from the man himself, my life would be severed in a spray of radiant red. Mr T always was a proper artist with a knife.

But, somehow, he wasn't finished, elaborating, "As you've said repeatedly, there's little point in dwelling on the past!"

An instant for the words to sink in.

"Do you mean it?" I asked hesitantly. Was he going to forgive me, forget Lucy? Hope replaced the damp wings of uncertainty and death.

"Now come here my love, nothing to fear my love,' he crooned, arms open wide and welcoming. His smooth white skin and barber's jacket were saturated in scarlet. Even the milky forelock streaking his black mane hadn't escaped being splattered with the thick lifeblood of tonight's victims. But I did not care.

"Everything I did, I swear I thought it only for the best, believe me," I said breathlessly. His hands were cold, slippery with the blood that had leaked out of the slit decorating Lucy's throat. The silver razor in his hand nestled comfortably between our entwined fingers. We began an insane waltz around my bakehouse, drunk on life and the even more potent measure of taking it.

"What's dead is dead," he reassured me. Mr T was an excellent dancer, graceful and sure, and we swirled in time to our own music.

One matter presented itself to the forefront of my mind, one that would make my life soar on the feathered wings of angels to the brink of living in a perfect dream.

"Can we still be…married?"

Ebullient excitement bubbled through me as Mr T smiled in acquiescence.

"The history of the world, my pet -"

"Oh, Mr Todd," I interrupted giddily, already envisioning how a seaside wedding could be devised. "Oh Mr Todd, leave it to me!"

"- is learn forgiveness and try to forget!"

Yes, he was more alive than I'd ever seen him. Perhaps murdering his wife had finally freed him.

"By the sea, Mr Todd, we'll be comfy-cozy," I sang jubilantly. "By the sea, Mr Todd, where there's no one nosy!"

Mr T had forgotten her already. I could see it in his face. He didn't even glance at her body as we waltzed around my pie trays, my meat grinder, my fresh supplies of flesh. I was triumphant. Flames fluttered merrily in the oven, much higher and hotter than usual. They snatched hungrily at the air pushed through the door. Soon, they'd be baking poor, dear Lucy in two dozen succulent meat pies.

Mr T swung me around, and I could have laughed from sheer delight. Everything was going to be perfect.

"Life is for the alive my dear, so let's keep living it!" Mr T said.

I could not agree more, as we say in unison, "Just keep living it!"

"Really living it!" Mr T roared. He flung me backwards. The metal shelf that held my baking pies dug sharply into my back, but this was secondary pain as flames raced to devour my dry skirts and stockings. A sense of betrayal suffered through the back of my mind; my very own oven, where I'd cooked Mr T's victims many a time into nourishing, delectable pies, was roasting me alive. Agony burned swiftly to my core as the cloth charred to ash and stuck deeply. My hair was crisped away in a second, my blackened skin melting into my bones in the intense heat. I screeched and flailed, but the iron door was shut.

All my sensations were gone for the barest instant when I realised Mr T had closed it. But the fire would not be ignored. The last thing I saw in this world was Mr Sweeney Todd's face through the small oven window, his shadowed eyes cold and unforgiving. My dreams would never be. I dissolved into soot and smoke in the brilliance of the furnace, screaming from fire, wailing from heartbreak, not able to tell which hurt more.

Dead.