The next day, I am up in my shoppe sharpening the dagger that remains hidden in my dress pocket. I hear footsteps making their way up the stairs. Only when they cease do I look up.
An admittedly handsome man with jet-black hair stares at me, unsure. He has a shock of white going through his messy head of hair. His dark eyes are filled with uncertainty.
The man clears his throat. "The dealer, from whom I bought a set of razors, told me the maker kept residence here. I'm sorry. I must have misheard him." I can tell he feels awkward.
"Are you looking for a silversmith named Beckett, sir?" I inquire.
"Yes," he replies, taken aback.
"That would be me. Darcie Beckett. At your service," I introduce.
"Really? Odd. I would have thought you to be a –" I cut the man off, already surmising the end of the familiar comment.
" – A man?" I cross my arms over my chest, blade still in hand.
"Well, I-" he starts.
"You're just like every other man out there." My finger points out the window. "You don't think women can do jobs like barbering or silversmith. I'll have you know, sir, that women can do anything a male can…and in some cases, even better. Beckett's Blades is the most recommended and renowned shoppe when selling silver in all of London," I inform the man. He merely cocks his eyebrows in response.
"Is that how you talk to all your customers?" he asks, advancing on me and inspecting his surroundings. "You must have everyone coming back," he states with a slight tone of sarcasm.
"How I talk is none of your business. However…I apologize. I am not in the best of moods today. I beg your pardon, sir. What may I do for you today?
While caressing a sword on the wall – the walls are covered with Annabel's and my work – he says, "I've come for a specialized set of straight razors."
"Did you not just say you have a set?"
"You made them over 15 years ago." He sounds a tad annoyed. "You sold them to Earnest Abbott, the dealer. The handles are made of chased silver. Do you recall them?"
"May I see one?" He reaches into a holster thing at his hip and frees a shimmering razor. He hands it over to me and I inspect it. Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to have them fall. "What's your name?" I inquire, my tone airy and dreamy.
"Todd. Sweeney Todd," he replies, harsh and gruff. I lift my face to see his, my eyes containing recognition.
"Ah, yes. 'The last word in barbering.' The news of your impeccable and unsurpassed skill has spread all across London, Mr. Todd. Your shoppe is above Mrs. Lovett's Meat pie emporium, right?"
"Well, was," he corrects. "She passed away this past week."
"Really?" I exclaim in surprise. "She was young to go. I'm sorry, Mr. Todd."
"'S alright. It was a downright shame. Quite tragic, really." Something in his tone tells me the sorrow is feigned. I glance back at the shining silver in my small hand.
"I remember these," I reminisce, slipping into a trance of sorts. "My sister's earliest – and probably greatest – work. She had a natural talent for this area of work. I remember. One day during her apprenticeship, she came running home to our parents and me. 'Mum! Papa! Sissy! Look what I made!' she yelled. She was 14 and we were surprised she made something this fantastic. Her tutor, Alan Stanton – sweet, honest man, he was – sold them to Ernie and gave her her first pay.
"From what I understand, though, an accomplished barber named Benjamin Barker bought them from him." Todd flinches at the name. "Do you know him?" I ask.
"I used to," he mutters.
"Did he give them to you before he was sent away? They were his favorites. Poor dear only acquired them about a month or two before being sent to bloody Australia for life."
"How I acquired the blades is none of your business or concern," He states icily, barely able to contain the harsh annoyance in his voice. "Now, will you help me or not?"
I am about to shoot him a nasty retort, accompanied by a meeting with the blades firmly clasped in my hands. Instead, I hold my tongue and hand the crafted silver back to the barber. "One order of specially made razors for Mr. Todd Coming right up. Any specifications? A due date?"
A small shadow of a smirk plays on the corner of his lips, but he restrains himself. "Since a professional, like you, needs time to create a masterpiece, I'll give you all the time you need. I've drawn a design I like, but you are not required to make an exact replica." Sweeney Todd hands me a folded piece of parchment.
I unfold it twice to reveal a drawing of a straight razor. His initials are in a fancy scrawl in the center of the hilt. The rest is an elaborate engraving. "I will do my best, sir," I promise. He nods and turns to exit the shoppe. "Stop by next Sunday. They should be ready." He gives me another shadow of a smile, accompanied by another nod before he disappears down the stairs. An involuntary smile attempts to cross my red lips, but I mentally slap myself and wipe the curves right off the corners of my mouth.