Author's Note:

I'm sorry about the delay. I have two kids, and my littlest one is sick. That keeps me pretty busy. A thank you as usual goes out to my reviewers.

GoldenPhoenix 12, I'm glad you like it. If you think it's weird now, just wait till you see some of the pairings I've got in mind. Suddenly Sweeney has a ring to it, don't you think?

Star's Snowflake, thanks for reviewing again. Unfortunately, I am an endless font of spelling errors. Lol I don't really have time to do this, so to save time, I shoot out these entirely too short chapters without the conventionalities of spell checking. Here's hoping I can keep them all in character with the gang from Fleet Street coming in and changing everything.

Now, on to the chapter.

Chapter Three

CRASH!! The rollingpin came down with a satisfying crunch. looked with satisfaction at the pile of crushed insects on her cutting board. The place was crawling with them. A single red curl flopped down over her eyes, and she wiped it back to join the others with a flower-covered hand. It didn't matter. Certainly she didn't have anyone to impress. Oh no. As a matter of fact, she hadn't seen a customer for weeks. She sighed, hoisting another rack of pies into the oven while another was placed out to cool and harden in the stale air of the all but forgotten pie shop on Fleet Street.

"Excuse me." She jumped, spinning with her rollingpin to face the voice in the dim light. It was a short, portly man in his late fifties to early sixties. He stepped back. she lowered the weapon, grinning sheepishly.

"Wait! What's your rush?" she demanded. "What's your hurry." She nearly pushed him on to one of the little stools at one of the not quite clean tables. "I've a minute. Can't ya sit." The man made a move to rise. "Sit! Sit ya down! Sit! Have ya come in for a pie, sir?"

He shook his head. "Ur, uh, I'm afraid not. I have a florist shop on Skid row. You may have heard of it."

"Please forgive me if me head's a little vague." She'd never heard of this Skid Row, let alone his ruddy old flower shop. Surely, this strange little fellow hadn't come here to sell her flowers! Or, had he? A humorless little laugh escaped her, building and bubbling forth like some toxic fount of insanity. She tried to imagine a cheerful bunch of daisies sitting in the midst of all the filth around her. This only made her laugh harder until she was clutching at her sides to keep it from tearing her apart. She fell, landing on his lap gracelessly as she laughed.

He shrugged, patting her awkwardly. "I didn't mean to upset you. I should leave."

She heard him, but only distantly. At last, the man stood, holding her in his arms like he might a small child. She wondered if he had any children, and then the tears came. She imagined him, some little girl's fortress, some little boy's hero. Mrs. Lovett had never had a child. Her dear Albert, God rest his soul, had been imputent. No children, no friends, no customers… Could life get any worse? And now this man was carrying her down a brightly lit hallway. She didn't have a brightly lit hallway anywhere in her shop, so where was he taking her.

"You can stay here for the night," he said, placing her on something soft and just a little bit lumpy. A bed, but not hers. "I'll start you a bath. You can eat something and get some rest."

And he was gone. She wondered who this man could be and why he was so kind to her. Was she so paathetically mad that even strangers were forced to pity her? She thought of one more pitiable than herself, and her face clouded with distaste. Lucy, that silly little blonde had poisoned herself, losing forever the sharpness of mind she once was famous for. A girl entered. She could tell by the soft footsteps and the scent of roses.

"I'm Audrey," the young thing said timidly. "Mr. Mushnik said you might need some help."

So that was his name. "No thank ya, deary. I've gotta get goin'." She rose, tripping over herself as she stood.

"Oh, Mr. Mushnik told me to insist." The girl reached out a steadying hand. The rist, Mrs. Lovett noticed with concern, had a vivid ring of bruises. The other rist bore the same marks, and she wondered what could do such a thing.