Ok ok so I'm a day late updating. But it's worth it, I promise! I probably like this chapter best so far, because it has some romance for Mrs Lovett. =D Thanks again to the wonderful reviewers and readers. I wouldn't have the same inspiration to write if it weren't for you!

Just to avoid any confusion: I've switched back and forth between Mrs Lovett and Mr T's POV and they're reflecting on what happened to them during the day.

Exeter!

It was a dark, cold night the train to Exeter sped through. Its passengers slept soundlessly in their carriages, and noticed nothing of the unhappy wind that clattered against the train windows. All except one passenger.

Sweeney Todd had thought after boarding the train, and seeing the green woods and bare countryside pass him by, he might at last have a night of restful sleep. Now that he was out of that stinking city and Mrs Lovett's shop where every wall and piece of floor reminded him of a baby's cap or the torn fabric from his wife's old dress – now that he was out of that, couldn't he forget?

Sweeney had tried. He'd stared endlessly out at the blurry flashes of green as they'd passed. He'd tried to imagine the happy lives other people must live as the train had stopped at each of the nameless towns, and tried to imagine a happy life for himself. But with the boy always eyeing him and Mrs Lovett's ceaseless chatter in his ear, begging for them to go out and explore for five little minutes or so before the train took off – it was impossible!

And then there were the irritating passengers themselves, who were, quite possibly, even more irritating than Mrs Lovett herself.

* * *

Earlier that Afternoon

The first knock on their compartment door came exactly fifteen minutes after the train had left London station and all the passengers were comfortably seated in their private quarters.

"I'll get it!" Mrs Lovett rushed, by force of habit, to get the door.

"Sit down, Mrs Stowe," said Mr Todd dangerously.

Mrs Lovett fell back in her seat.

"Let the boy answer it."

Toby got up, and swallowed nervously as those two hellish eyes burnt through him. "What if it's the filth?" Toby had visions of screaming to the waiting cops in the corridor: "there 'e is! There's the bleedin' murderer!" But then how would he explain his Mum's business in all this, and why they were all on the run together?

No, Toby decided cautiously, he was going to have to wait. After all, if he had learnt anything from Mr Todd, it was that waiting a long time brought bloody rewards.

Toby opened the door a crack, enough to poke his head through. "Yes, sir?"

A gentleman and his wife stood hesitantly in the corridor. The wife had her arm wrapped tightly around her husbands', as if she were afraid that something behind that door was going to launch itself at her. "Ah," the heavily moustached man began, "am I to gather that you are the child of Mr and Mrs Stowe?"

Toby tried to control the anger in his face. He wanted to kick the well-dressed man in the shins, or steal his cane, but he did neither. All his time working for Senor Pirelli had trained him in the Art of Control in Extremely Trying Situations. He could feel Mr Todd's burning eyes on his back, and didn't doubt for a second that Todd could beat him as hard, if not harder than Pirelli had. "That is correct, sir," Toby answered, remembering he was meant to be educated. Best not to arouse any suspicions, Toby thought. He bowed low before the wealthy pair.

"I came only for my wife's sake," the gentleman began, by way of explanation, "for you see she was extremely distressed by this afternoon's event."

Sticks, Toby thought. This rich people will throw us out! We've blown it again!

Without warning, Mr Todd appeared behind him in the doorway. Even with his new suit and reasonable hair-cut, the husband and wife visibly blanched at the sight of him. There was no easy of erasing fifteen years of brooding and torment. "May I help you, sir and Madam?"

Under Mr Todd's unyielding stare, the couple began to look increasingly uncomfortable. "My wife," the man faltered, "my wife was…"

" – distressed, Henry," the woman finished for him.

"Yes," the man appeared to be turning red. "We are sorry for your wife's condition, Mr Stowe, but we, ah, could not help feeling concerned. Your wife is safe, is she not?"

Toby could see the frown spreading across Mr Todd's face. But the immense spread of Mr Todd's demonic thoughts lay hidden beneath that controlled distaste. He was probably thinking of how to rip their heads off, Toby guessed, and marvelled at Mr Todd's self-control. "If you are trying to determine whether my wife is a danger to the safety of the passengers on this train, I assure you, she is not. She is unwell, for private reasons which I choose not to disclose, and will remain in my custody, within the confines of our compartment, for the duration of the trip. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Well, I," the husband began. Neither the man nor his wife looked particularly comforted, but they found themselves powerless under Sweeney Todd's gaze, and mumbled a "yes" and "thankyou" and "good day," before retreating down the corridor.

Mr Todd slammed the compartment door.

But it was not the end of the disturbances. All afternoon, people bustled down the corridor of the carriage where Mr and Mrs Stowe were located. Some came to Mr Stowe concerned that Mrs Stowe would go on a mad rampage through the train. Some came out of concern for Mrs Stowe, on account of the ticket master's abusive behaviour. Some of them wanted Mrs Stowe thrown off the train at the next station. Others wanted the ticket master thrown off the train at the next station. In the end the ruckus only ceased when evening came and travel between carriages was limited by the train guards.

At last, Mr Todd thought, I can get some rest.

* * *

Evening

The whole train was sleeping now, but the lull of dark night sweeping past did nothing to ease him into sleep. Mr Todd was thinking of his dead wife, as he often did in the hours of darkness when there was nobody to distract him from himself. Was her ghost out there now, wandering about in the bleak countryside? He could imagine, if he stared long enough, a white figure with blonde hair dancing in a moorish light beyond the window. The strange light seemed to have come out of nowhere, Mr Todd thought.

Actually, the light was the headlight of the train as it bore around a sloping curve. The light reflected on the end of the train, and that was what Mr Todd had imagined was his wife dancing in the black landscape.

Hours later, when the darkness of night had lessened, the train ran around a sharp corner.

Mrs Lovett jerked awake. She turned either side of her, realising where she was. She'd been dreaming she was back in London again, cooking pies. It was a horrid dream, and Mrs Lovett was glad to shake it off. Toby was curled up on her right side, closest the door. His back was curved against the seat, and his head was buried as far as it would into his thin body. Across from them, on the opposite seat, sat Mr Todd. He only took up a third of the seat, but Mr Todd had insisted on having no company near him. His whole body was inclined toward the darkness outside, and he rested now, completely still, but not asleep. He was staring out into the night, as if his staring might make the window break and bring whatever it was he desired alive and back to him.

Mrs Lovett pretended she was asleep by remaining as still as she could. Her left arm rested on her lap, and her right elbow rested on her left arm. Her head was sitting propped up on her right palm attached to the arm and elbow, and Mrs Lovett couldn't help thinking Mr Todd wouldn't have noticed any different if she'd been a statue, or worse, a woman with her head cut off like those poor criminals who'd used to have their heads impaled on large stakes atop of London Bridge. Was there no way to reach him, she found herself wondering?

Mrs Lovett found no immediate answer to that one. It was her eternal question, just as a priest in his darkest hour might question God's existence.

And this was Mrs Lovett's darkest hour.

She could hear the rattle of the train underneath her and around her. All around her was complete darkness, and apart from the train's rattle, silence. It was frightening for her, for a woman who'd never left London city, or travelled more than a few days away from her pie shop in twenty years. Terrible things had happened on that street, of course, long before Sweeney Todd had come along, but they were familiar terrible things. She knew, for example, the almost homely sound of Mrs Mooney strangling a cat outside the alleyway of her pie shop at five o' clock in the morning. She knew the smell of the neighbour's toilet being hurled in the street below her. She knew the thick, choking fog that hung over London's sky for most days. Mrs Lovett knew the sound of the workers trooping home from work in the wet, muddy streets. The sound of Charlie's girls working on the corner would wake her at two or three every night. And all through the nights, somewhere in the city, the lights always burned. London never slept.

Which was why Mrs Lovett was wondering if she could ever sleep properly again, being so far from home. So many things seemed strange now, only hours away from the roaring giant city. When she'd had the Mr T sleeping in the room across from her, Mrs Lovett had never questioned it. Albert had been dead so long and Mrs Lovett had been lonely so long she never thought to look a gift horse in the mouth. Time will make him come around, Mrs Lovett promised herself. But after months of waiting, Mr Todd's hatred had only increased towards her. Aside from the odd moment when she thought of some genius way to help him, Mr Todd's only kindness to her was well-worn contempt, or total indifference. Mrs Lovett couldn't decide which she hated more.

So now, she found herself asking: was there any point? Should she go on loving him? Should she go on trying, when he only seemed to consider her a burden? Maybe, Mrs Lovett thought, I should just be smart an' take Toby and me away from this stinkin' mess. We'll find ourselves a quiet little cottage, poor but respectable-like, and make ourselves a new life. Then I won't wake up seeing Mr T's face wondering if 'e'll ever look at me the way 'e looked at Lucy.

* * *

Earlier in the Afternoon

He'd been atrocious to her that afternoon. But they weren't truly married, and that meant he didn't have the right to boss her about! He'd made her sit by the train window with the matron's bonnet cover her whole face – for three hours without so much as a move! Sure, there was pretty enough countryside to be staring at, but after a while even that bored her. Did he know what effort and concentration Mrs Lovett had required to sit there still as a mouse, while beyond the compartment she could hear such a commotion? Everyone, even Mr T, was talking, and she was forced to pretend to be his mad, stupid wife.

But she stayed. She wanted to prove to Mr T, that she could be silent as he, if she chose. Mrs Lovett knew he thought she was a shallow, flitting creature from the way his eyes looked at her whenever she launched herself into a new topic of conversation. But he didn't understand that most of what she said spilled out from nerves, and not shallowness. I don't think even Mrs Lovett knew just how misplaced she felt around him sometimes. She didn't know the way to reach him, but for talking his leg off.

So, you may imagine, that after three hours of sitting and not hearing a word from anyone, Mrs Lovett got up from her post and stormed to the door. There was another reason for her anger, as she undid the enormous bonnet that choked around her chin. She had not had a chance for a toilet since the early hours of the morning, since they'd first fled the Pie shop. Mrs Lovett had to leave their compartment. It was not a matter of choice!

Just as she began to turn the knob and slip out, Mr Todd yanked the door open and stood over. "Put the bonnet back on," he ordered. Mrs Lovett looked past him, wondering where Toby and all the people had got to. When she didn't move, he pulled the bonnet back on firmly around her head.

"It don't matter much, they already know what I look like Mr T." Mrs Lovett realised from Mr Todd's darkening face, that she had slipped up again. "I mean Mr Stowe," she corrected herself finally.

"I told you not to move."

"Look 'ere," Mrs Lovett said, not caring to put on her accent. "If I don't go outside, I'm gonna go in here," she said, jabbing her finger at the ground, "and it won't be pretty. The stench'll be so strong I'd say even Mr Pirelli wouldn't have dare used it for his Miracle Elixir, catch my drift?"

"Caught it," Mr Todd said, suddenly both amused and worn out by this forceful little woman. "You 'ave three minutes, before more of London's lunatics come bothering us."

As soon as Mr T was out of her sight, Mrs Lovett felt a sudden heaviness lifted off her. It was the first time she had been truly alone for a long time, she thought, stepping carefully out into the narrow corridor in her thick dress. It wasn't hard to locate the Lavatory, considering theirs was the last carriage, and Mrs Lovett had reached the end of the corridor. She found the word Lavatory printed in gold across the last door on the right hand side, and above it, the word Lady. Mrs Lovett double-checked down the corridor to see if she were being followed. Satisfied, she ducked into the lavatory, and locked it.

After relieving herself, Mrs Lovett spent long minutes staring into that beautifully carved mirror, watching her own drawn, tired face beneath the huge bonnet. Her eyes stood out like large, over-the-top lanterns, both comic and tragic. Mrs Lovett knew this, because her childhood nickname was Nellie the Clown, for her sad, jester face. When she'd first met Albert, he'd thought she was Greek, even though he'd never met a Greek woman in his life. "It was on account of those paintings in Mr Connor's antique shop," he'd explained, "you reminds me of them sad women bending over the wells in them ancient robes, begging for their lovers to come back from the dead."

And before that, when she was just nineteen and bustling about in the front window of the clothes shop, Judge Turpin had come in and taken her aside: "Dear Lady," he'd said, "you could be Helen of Troy, arisen from the dead."

Mrs Lovett hadn't had the chance to read any mythology to know Helen of Troy had been "the most beautiful woman in the world," but even if she had known, she wouldn't have believed it. At home, she'd never spent much time staring at herself, even when she'd had the time in those long mornings and evenings after work. It brought bad luck, she'd told herself, staring into something that could steal your soul. And it never made her happy either, always thinking on why she hadn't be born looking like Mona, or when she met Mr T, like Lucy. "You'll be the death of me," she cursed, wondering briefly whether she was talking about the mirror or Mr T.

She stepped out of the lavatory rather quickly, eager to get away from the spell of the mirror. And stumbled right into the man coming out of the male lavatory across from her.

"Watch where you're going," Mrs Lovett scolded lightly. She knew it was her fault, but Mrs Lovett wasn't in the mood to admit she was wrong after all the mistakes she had made that day.

"Ordinarily, Madam," said the man as he regained his balance, "I might bow and extend my greatest sorrow and shame for causing a woman such as yourself any pain. In this particular case, I saw clearly as the sun rises that it was you who barrelled into me, and not vice-versa. Therefore, it is from you I require an apology."

Mrs Lovett stared. She'd expected the man to apologise and move on. Not this loony-bin. It seemed Mrs Lovett had a knack for attracting mad hatters. He was probably handsome, underneath the unkempt beard and long hair that hid his dark skin. He was scruffily dressed, in strange, loose pants, a maroon coat at least thirty years out of fashion. A strange mustard-yellow hat adorned his dark head. From what she could see of him underneath the clothes, Mrs Lovett thought he was a Bohemian, a foreigner, or mad. Or, even more likely, she thought, a bit of all three.

"Deepest apologies," Mrs Lovett said, giving a sardonic curtsey, "but I'm not in the habit of apologisin' to fruit-cakes on the loose from Bedlam."

The man grinned, immediately gathering her joke. At least he's not mentally challenged, Mrs Lovett thought.

He grinned. "I doubt, since I am not English born, that your government would bother taking me to Bedlam. Throwing me from a moving train would be a more inexpensive option."

"Let me know if you need a hand in the throwing." Mrs Lovett adjusted the bonnet self-consciously. She wished he could see beneath it.

"Are you a widow?" he asked suddenly.

"Could have fooled me," Mrs Lovett frowned. "Usually it's Londoners who make marriage proposals within a minute of meetin' a woman."

The man fixed Mrs Lovett with a closed smile. "I mean you no harm. I am an artist, as you may have guessed from my attire, therefore it's my nature to notice people. When I look at you, I notice your clothes, and forgive me for saying – but you have a sad face. That is why I think you are a widow."

Mrs Lovett returned the smile. "Most people wouldn't describe me sad. They're too busy tryin' to catch up with wot I'm saying. But yes, you are right. I am a widow. But not lately widowed. My husband's been gone seven years this winter."

"I suppose," the man continued, bolder now, "no one has noticed that you are beautiful, either?"

Mrs Lovett found herself blushing, as if he had seen her talking to herself in the toilet mirror. "We're all dead flowers by winter's end, love," but the smile hadn't entirely disappeared from her face.

"Then we should live in spring," the man answered. He kept shifting his weight from right to left foot, but his eyes never left her face. "May I be bold enough to ask for a name?"

Mrs Lovett glanced down the end of the corridor, wondering if Mr Todd had caught her talking to the stranger. Mrs Lovett shook her head. Wearing a staid dress and bonnet suddenly made her feel as if she were a nun, and she could no longer walk and laugh and chatter like Nellie Lovett ordinarily did. "No," she answered briefly. "I mean, it's not proper."

Mrs Lovett smiled despite herself. She had heard well-to-do ladies drive past her shop in their carriages and comment loudly on how improper her business was. Well, now she had a chance to show them up with their own words.

"But still you smile," said the man, standing quite still now despite the jerky rattle of the train. Mrs Lovett had to hold onto the rail on the door. "Since propriety forbids us, I will not tell you my name either."

Mrs Lovett said nothing. If she had been one of those easily offended "ladies", she might have run from the man's forward behaviour, or more drastically, called the train guard to escort him off the train. But Mrs Lovett's life for seven years had been a life of trying to hold back a flood. She had trained herself to learn to live without. No one she knew wanted to remarry a widowed woman, and so Mrs Lovett had learned to get used to living alone.

It hadn't been so hard at first. Her life hadn't changed much when Albert had died, because she hadn't desired him the way she desired Benjamin Barker. But when Mr Todd came back, after all those years, it became harder every day to remind herself she should live alone. His room lay just across from hers. It amazed her to think she'd lived so long on earth without every really loving someone. Since the moment Mrs Lovett desired Sweeney Todd, she knew the fortress she'd created for herself was caving in. Day by day, it was only a matter of time before the gates hurled open, and the flood rolled in.

"I believe you like games." The man was still staring at her. The beard and long hair somehow hid part of himself from her, the way the bonnet hid part of Mrs Lovett.

Mrs Lovett blinked. ""ow can you know wot a strange woman likes?"

"You haven't run away yet."

"No, I haven't." Mrs Lovett was standing at the edge of the fortress gate, about to let the flood come crashing in.

"You're not a governess," the man guessed, "though your clothes seemed to say you are. Your accent is all wrong."

"Want to know wot I am?" Mrs Lovett remained standing where she was. She lowered her voice to a deliberately inviting whisper.

He stepped forward, as if to hear her better. Unlike Mr Todd, it was not difficult to read what this man was thinking. "Yes."

"I'm an artist's model."

The man laughed. "So that's why you dress as a widow! The perfect disguise!"

Mrs Lovett doubted he really believed her, but her answer made both of them smile.

"Is there way I might entice you to model for me? Painting women is far more interesting than still lifes or landscapes."

Mrs Lovett shook her head. "Impossible. All clients o' mine 'ave to be approved by me manager. An I don't know you one bit." But it was only pretend offense, because Mrs Lovett stayed exactly where she stood. And her words, though light and jolly, meant nothing compared to the desire that seeped out of her face.

It wasn't love. Not the kind of love she had for Mr Todd. Not the kind of wasteful, mournful love she spent empty nights crying into her pillow over. It was simple, human lust. To be desired by another person, and feel the same desire in return. Mrs Lovett was thinking at that moment that sometimes desire was better than love.

"If I cannot ask for your name, or what you do," said the man, stepping forward just as the train lurched around the corner. He held onto the rail of the lady's lavatory, so that they were standing directly beside each other, while remaining hidden from anyone who might have peered down the corridor. "If we are just to be two strangers," he continued, "and nothing more, what might be the harm in a simple greeting?"

Mrs Lovett nodded, unable to speak.

"A friendly kiss, from one stranger to another?" The man was standing over her now, waiting for her to answer.

At last Nellie met his gaze directly, and nodded.

"One stranger to another," she whispered. She was so nervous she couldn't think of anything clever to say this time. It had been so long since someone had stood so close to her, had taken all her space away. Mrs Lovett half-expected him to kiss her on the cheek, but there was nothing friendly in what he did.

Unlike the stranger's words, his chin and mouth were rough, and Mrs Lovett almost forgot to return his kiss. There was restlessness, and urgency between them. They were telling each other what they could not have said in words. What they could speak to no one else. It held all - everything intense, and strange, and unspoken. Everything Mrs Lovett had imagined could be between her and Mr T. She did not fight this stranger. For a time they became an extension of each other, one stranger a part of the other.

As awkwardly as it had begun, Mrs Lovett was disappointed when the kiss ended. He smiled knowingly as they broke from each other. He did not touch her again.

Their eyes held once more before he disappeared down the corridor, and left her standing by the lady's lavatory.

Mrs Lovett could not smile. She was smiling inside, but the muscles would not register on her face. She didn't mind if anyone, even Mr T, discovered her at that moment. She still felt the stranger's gift on her lips, but more than that, it was a feeling that infused her completely. In the dark rattling corridor, Mrs Lovett had discovered the world that she could before only envy. Now, she thought without even a hint of envy, I know what Mr Todd must feel when he thinks of Lucy.

* * *

Evening

In the darkness of the compartment, with Toby at her side, and Mr T brooding across from her, Mrs Lovett still could not sleep. She was fully awake, dreaming of the stranger bending over her in the prelude to their kiss. She hadn't known that was how it could be. Was that how it could be, if Mr T could be made to forget Lucy, even for a minute?

"Mr T," Mrs Lovett whispered across the seat. She knew he could hear her, because his lip twitched briefly. "Mr T, are you awake?" But he did not turn away from the window.

Mrs Lovett decided to wait. Mr Todd might have waited fifteen years to slaughter the Judge, but she had waited her life to be loved. He, at least, had known a brief taste of love.

And Mrs Lovett waited, until the colours of the night became less intense, and lifted slightly. The blackness ebbed away, replaced by deep inky grey that foretold a day of cloud and rain. She had been too afraid before, to get up, in case he was not asleep. But now, in the little hints of light that spilled over his face in the shadows, Mrs Lovett could see that Mr Todd was truly asleep. She had never seen him asleep.

He did not look sweet. No one could ever describe him as such. But he did look less like Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and more like Benjamin Barker. Maybe he's most happy there, Mrs Lovett thought, in his sleep. No one could see the sad depths of those eyes now.

Mrs Lovett made her choice. She stole quietly from her seat, while the train still ran along a straight bend. She sat beside him gingerly, as if she were treading on Lucy's ghost somehow. Briefly, the memory of her shoving Lucy's body into the oven flashed in her head, but Mrs Lovett shook it away. She leant over his still, unsuspecting form, and placed her lips gently over his mouth. It was just the same as hugging a stranger, Mrs Lovett decided, because there was nothing in the kiss. It could only mean something if Mr T returned it.

Still, it was something. It was her gift to Benjamin Barker.

Mrs Lovett returned to her seat, and waited for her sleeping companions to stir.

* * *

Phew! My longest chapter so far! Hope you liked it. However, I am not adverse to flames. =)