It was beyond all reason.
The impossibility even made Sweeney Todd, the demon barber, take a few steps back.
Mrs. Lovett was still alive.

It would have been a putrid, gruesome sight. The corpse was the canvas. The razor was the brush. The blood was the paint. And rigor mortis would have captured her essence perfectly. What an awful shame, a terrible waste of a woman.

Her movements were slow, miniscule at first. A twitch of the fingers. A faint rise and decline in the chest. The slight signs of life would have been missed by untrained eyes. But Sweeney Todd was a perfectionist. He was transfixed, captured by these complications.

Her eyes drifted open. She raised a trembling hand. Her fingers rubbed the intricate gash. And he watched her shake on the cobblestone. She was shivering in pooling blood.

"Mr. T," Her voice quivered. She stumbled on the words, "No pulse."

Sweeney was surprised. He expected Mrs. Lovett to confront his vicious reactions immediately. Instead she was more concerned about …

He instantly knelt down. He roughly jabbed two fingers into her carotid. She elicited a raspy gasp; he barely noticed. There was no drumming artery against his fingertips. He pressed harder, further indenting her flesh. It was a desperate, fruitless attempt. He felt nothing. He seized her wrist and pressed into the radial artery. It failed to pound against his grasp.

It was another terrible disappointment. And a terribly confounding disappointment too. She was breathing but her heart was silent. She was alive but dead.

"What 'bout you?" Mrs. Lovett inquired. Her hand was snaking around his arm. Her fingertips implored for one touch on his pale throat.

Sweeney violently pushed her hand away. She was daft for certain. He would not yield; her honeyed lies prevented any physical advancement. But her question did yield some curiosity.

He searched his throat for minutes. His wrists received similar attention.

"Nothin'." He said aloud, more for his confirmation than for conversation.

"What's happened to us?" Mrs. Lovett whispered. Her breathing became labored. Her panic was evident and clearly displayed.

He hardly cared about her anxiety. But the questions were worth investigation.


Mrs. Lovett was frightened. She wanted reassurance. She wanted any empathetic sign from Mr. Todd. But his eyes were distant again. And his visage was vacant, void of emotion.

She did not care about his spiel before. The accusations were half true. Yes, she lied. But he lied too. He was the murderer. She merely disposed of the bodies. And times were very hard. The price of meat was preposterous. Plus, the butcher always gave too much bone. That was his manner of trickery. She never included the bones. But that part was never entirely wasted. The sewer rats were very much obliged for those gifts.

Mrs. Lovett rationalized his actions. She knew he was dangerous and unpredictable. He acted on impulse, poor man. And that was the trouble with him. But she admired these primal instincts. Albert certainly never acted on anything but hunger and occasionally lust. But Mr. Todd had such forceful passions. She quickly forgave his murderous attempt. She was convinced it was only experimental. She was certain the results stupefied him as well.

She used her arms for support and sat up. His attention was fixated on her throat.

"Is it worse?" She asked, attempting conversation again.

"No," He replied quite expediently, "It's only a scar now."

"It must 'ave healed all quick-like, just like yours." Mrs. Lovett gulped, "this is a bit a' the devil's magic it is, Mr. T."

"Not quite." A masculine voice interjected.

The soft clacking of shoes echoed on the cobblestone. A tall man walked out of the shadows. He strode toward the pair with purpose.


Sweeney Todd observed the advancing man. He was smartly dressed in subdued colors. His features were hard and worn with time. But his countenance was not cold. The man was simple save for his eyes. They were the color of amber. They could be likened to candles amidst endless darkness. He offered an extended hand to Mrs. Lovett.

She cautiously accepted; he aided her to stand. Then, he turned and offered an outstretched hand to Sweeney.

The hand was scrutinized as if it was dripping feces. Sweeney abruptly refused by standing without assistance.

"Mrs. Nellie Lovett (1) and Mr. Sweeney Todd, formerly Benjamin Barker. Is that correct?" The man methodically questioned.

"Yes," Mrs. Lovett answered with some apprehension.

However, Sweeney did not answer. Instead, he questioned, "And who exactly are you?"

The man blinked once. Then, he gave a half-hearted smile. "Ah, forgive me. I've had these conversations so many times you see. George Reaping, attorney at law for the recently deceased. Pleasure making your acquaintance. Now, back to formalities. You are Sweeney Todd, formerly Benjamin Barker? Correct?"

"Yes sir," Sweeney answered, quite perplexed. Reaping certainly gave a prompt delivery.

"We are dead then, Mr. Reaping?" Mrs. Lovett inquired.

"Yes, yes of course," Reaping replied. He chuckled and added, "You can't expect to cheat the scythe twice. Ah, and Mr. Todd, I strongly discourage any further acts of violence. That kind of behavior is frowned upon here. And I might add, is hardly beneficial."

The words coming from George Reaping were foreign. Sweeney did not understand. What did it matter how many acts of violence were committed? She was dead. And the sight of her blood was intoxicating. It was almost cathartic (2). He could repeat her death hundreds, no thousands of times now. He fantasized of countless possibilities until her voice rattled something important.

"Where is here, Mr. Reaping?" She continued.

"Ah, that would be Fortune City, Mrs. Lovett. Unfortunately, you won't be seeing much of her splendor. Criminals are usually put under house arrest."

"Are we to remain 'ere fo'ever then?" Sweeney Todd wondered aloud, not expecting an answer.

Reaping laughed, "I should certainly hope not! Or else I wouldn't be much of a lawyer. I might be able to finagle some privileges during your stay here. Of course after a verdict, we have little say in the matter."

"An' what'll happen after a verdict, Mr. Reaping?" Mrs. Lovett prodded.

"Well, surely you'll go above or below Fortune City. Unfortunately, the chances are slim of going above. But, perhaps some witness or two will work in your favor."

An audible yet muffled beeping was heard. Reaping fumbled in his pant pocket. He retrieved an odd contraption that elicited the beeping. He glanced, silenced, and shoved it into his pocket.

"I do apologize, but I am needed elsewhere. Another death, you see. One of my associates will visit shortly. Probably a caseworker or two." George Reaping was concluding conversation quickly. He was advancing to the iron door.

"Wait!" Mrs. Lovett exclaimed. She brushed past Sweeney and followed Reaping. She placed a timid hand on his shoulder. "You'll come back? Won'tcha, love?"

"On the court date, yes. One day for you, the other for Mr. Todd," He effortlessly pushed the cast iron door open, and ascended the staircase. But it was a very peculiar ascension. Portions of his body faded with each step, until George Reaping vanished.

Mrs. Lovett frantically turned around. She was obviously very distraught.

"Oh, Mr. Todd, what are we to do?" She begged, clearly desperate for conclusive answers.

But Sweeney Todd was apathetic to her constant questions. A little silence would be perfect. Ample time to collect his thoughts would be ideal.

"Take your own advice Mrs. Lovett," he growled, "and wait."


(1) Quite a few sources have claimed Mrs. Lovett's name to be Nellie, Margery, or Sarah. I'm sticking with the former.

(2) From what I've learned in Social Psychology this semester catharsis does not work. It only promotes more violent behavior. And yet, very appropriate for Sweeney don't you think?

And many thanks to the reviewers! I hope you enjoy the chapters as much as I enjoy composing them.

George Reaping is property of my mind, if you want to use him, give credit please!