Author's Note: Sorry that I've been so slow to update. This chapter took a seriously long time to write. I think I started on it two weeks before I finished it. It's long, at least.

In this story, I'm having Mrs. Lovett open the pie shop long before Anthony finds Johanna. I think that's what happens in the stage version, because "God, That's Good!" takes place before "Johanna".

Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd, "Ten Thousand Miles Away", or "The Ballad of Barbara Allen". Of course, I think those last two are public domain. Anyway, I own no one but the postmistress. By the way, I'm not really sure how the postal system worked in Victorian London, so that part might not be historically accurate.

Chapter Twelve: Ten Thousand Miles Away

Anthony,

When you wrote last August, you promised that you would be home within the week. It has been nearly three months since then, and more than three years since any of us have seen you. You say that something is keeping you in London. You say that you will return to Portsmouth once you have taken care of it. What is this thing, Anthony? I am no longer sure that I believe you.

Maggie

Anthony stood inside the post office, staring at the letter. Without a doubt, it was the shortest, coldest one his sister had ever sent. He counted the weeks in his head; he had been in town for twelve. Nearly three months, as Maggie had said. Almost a season. Nearly three months of combing the streets for Johanna, of sleeping on park benches because he couldn't afford a room anymore, of making do with summer clothes that couldn't keep out the cold.

The postmistress cleared her throat. Quickly, he folded the letter, tucked it in his jacket, and asked her for a piece of paper.

"That'll be a penny," she said, narrowing her eyes. Anthony tried not to scowl at her. He had seen the world; he knew that a penny was an exorbitant price to pay for a single scrap of paper.

"Too much," he said. The postmistress's eyes narrowed even more.

"Maybe in your country village, it's too much," she told him, "but here, it's a penny. If you can't pay, I can't spare any paper."

They glared at each other. Finally, Anthony reached into his pocket and handed over the penny. She smiled and gave him a graying sheet of paper. He took a pen and a bottle of ink from his bag and began to compose a reply to Maggie.

"I'd rather you not do that in here," the postmistress said. He ignored her and kept writing.

Dear Maggie, he began.

Please believe me. I cannot tell you what I have to do now but I will later and I will come back to Portsmouth once I have done it. I do not know how long this will take though.

Love,

Anthony

He scrawled the address on the back of the letter and then waited for the ink to dry before handing it to the postmistress.

"That'll be a penny," she repeated. He thrust his hand into his pocket, found another coin, and shoved it into her outstretched hand. She flinched slightly but maintained her smile. He supposed he would have smiled, too, if he had won the penny.

No place like London, he thought, as he trudged out of the post office and into the street. Nearly three months ago, he'd said the same words, albeit with a different meaning. Now he was running out of time, money, and shoe leather. Worse, he suspected that he would never find Johanna, no matter how tirelessly he searched. And he knew that he would never forgive himself if he didn't find her.


By seven o'clock that evening, he found himself on Fleet Street. He had meant to follow Beadle Bamford again, in hopes of being led to Johanna. A few nights ago, however, the Beadle had discovered what he was doing and threatened him with the retractable cane. Anthony thought it best to keep his head down for a while. Anyway, he had been meaning to visit the pie shop. Since the day of his mistake, he had tried frequently to see Mr. Todd, in order to apologize. The first few times, Mrs. Lovett had told him not to bother. After that, the pie shop had suddenly become so busy that he never had the opportunity to speak to her.

The whole business was exceedingly strange. He had gone over the events of that evening more times than he could count, but he'd yet to understood why Mr. Todd had been so angry. Granted, he had lost a customer, and a rich one at that. Still, that didn't seem cause for murderous rage, or for holding a grudge for weeks on end. Then again, Anthony had never really understood anything about Mr. Todd: not his name, not the way he had appeared in Botany Bay, and definitely not his strange story. Every time Anthony tried to piece it together, he ended up more confused than he'd started.

Presently, he felt something tug on his sleeve. When he looked down, he saw that it was the beggar woman who had told him Johanna's name. He pulled away from her, hoping that she wouldn't solicit him again. She tightened her grip.

"Hell," she whispered, pointing shakily towards the pie shop. "Don't you see it? Don't you see it? The devil comes up from the sewers to see his wife in the bake house…oh, they don't believe me, no they don't, but they'll believe you, you'll tell the Beadle, won't you?"

She's gotten worse, he thought, as he pried her fingers off his arm.

"Well, mum," he said carefully, "I'm not on the best of terms with the Beadle. You'd better ask someone else."

"But it's the end of the world, you have to believe me, do you know what will happen if you don't? Look at them, look at that smoke; can't you see anything, sailor boy?"

"No!" he said, shaking off her hand. "Don't talk like that, please," he added. "It won't do any good."

With that, he hurried across the street to the crowded pie shop, where he took a seat at one of the outside tables. He meant to wait until Mr. Todd wasn't busy with a customer, but that time never came. Men seemed to file in and out of his shop in rapid succession. Anthony could have sworn that a few of them never descended the stairs at all.

He'd been watching for a while when Toby, the boy who worked in the shop, stopped at his table. Anthony had seen him before, and had always assumed that he was Mrs. Lovett's son. Now that Toby was standing in front of him, he recognized him as the boy who'd tried to sell him hair elixir in St. Dunstan's market. He looked much better now that he was wearing decent clothes instead of rags and a yellow wig.

"What'll it be, mister?" he asked.

Anthony had forgotten about food; he'd forgotten to eat since that morning. It was hard to remember such ordinary things while Johanna was missing. Now he realized just how hungry he was.

"I'd like a meat pie," he told Toby, "and a pint of ale."


"Resting, Dearie?"

Anthony lifted his head from his arms. Mrs. Lovett stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. He glanced about the yard; all of the other customers had left. Only Toby remained, running a rag over the tables.

"What time is it?" he asked. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. His mind had settled somewhat; his thoughts were blunted. He was quite drunk. He remembered the last time, three years ago in New York. It had made him so sick that he hadn't cared to repeat the experience until this evening. This was how it had started. The sleepiness and warmth preceded vomiting into a gutter by a few hours.

Mrs. Lovett still hadn't answered his question. Instead, she turned and motioned for Toby to come to her. Toby dropped the rag and obeyed.

"Yes, mum?" he asked.

"You go on to bed, love. I'll do the tables."

"I ain't tired." Toby clenched his jaw. Either he intended to show Mrs. Lovett how determined he was to finish the tables, or he was struggling not to yawn. Mrs. Lovett smiled and, with little success, tried to smooth his bristly hair. Anthony averted his eyes; he wasn't sure why.

"Course you ain't," Mrs. Lovett replied, "but get to bed all the same."

When Toby had gone inside, she turned to Anthony.

"It was good of you to take him in," he said, before she could ask him to leave. She raised her eyebrows, but her smile let him know that he'd bought himself a few more minutes.

"That's nice, love," she said, "but I'm not doing anything out of the goodness of my heart. The lad's cheap labor. He works all hours of the day, and all I've got to do is give him a few leftover pies. I'm being practical, that's all."

"You must've had to buy him new clothes," he observed. She waved her hand dismissively, but some faint color was coming into her pale cheeks.

"Well, I couldn't have him serving the customers in rags, could I? People'd talk. Anyway, business's better than it's ever been." She paused and looked at him askance. "Hadn't you better be getting home? It's getting on eleven."

"Oh…yes…well…of course…" He got to his feet unsteadily and began fishing through his pockets. "How much do I owe you?"

"Thruppence." Her expression was unreadable as she watched him fumble with the coins. When she had them safely tucked in her bosom, she asked him, "Don't you have anyone to go home to?"

"Not tonight." He thought of the possible implications and blushed. "Not in London," he amended. "I'm a sailor, mum. I don't know anyone in town." Then he started to turn and leave. She stopped him with a look.

"I don't just mean in London," she snapped. "I mean anywhere. There must be somebody waiting for you to come home."

He thought of Maggie and nodded.

"Why keep them waiting any longer, then?" she asked.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. This was the same question that had plagued him over the past several weeks. She can't know what she's asking, he told himself. Oh, Lord, she just can't know.

"I'm not going home without Johanna," he said finally. Mrs. Lovett sighed. His temper flared. "What?" he asked, rather too loudly. "I have to find her. It's my fault she's lost, after all."

"Calm down, love," she told him. She eyed his empty pint on the table. Then she looked at him. "How would you like another pint? On the house," she added.

He started to say that he didn't drink. Then he realized how ridiculous this sounded. He didn't recall exactly how many pints he'd had, but the number was anywhere from two to four.

"Thank you," he said. Not that it would've mattered if he had refused; Mrs. Lovett was already pulling him towards the shop. He took one last glance at the stairs and saw Mr. Todd standing at the top. He was gazing at the yard, as if he expected customers at this late hour. Anthony remembered his original intention of seeing him. Before he could do anything about it, however, Mrs. Lovett had him sitting inside the pie shop with a pint in his hands.

"Nice and warm in here, ain't it?" she asked. He nodded. "I suppose you've been sleeping outside? Oh, I can tell," she said, glancing at him. "You wouldn't be falling asleep over dinner if you had someplace decent to sleep."

"The inn cost too much," he explained. "I thought I'd run out of money if I stayed."

She nodded, and then began tidying up the shop. He finished his pint. Outside the window, he could hear a man singing:

My true love, she was beautiful,

My true love, she was young,

Her eyes were like the diamonds bright,

And silvery was her tongue,

And silvery was her tongue, my boys,

As the big ship sailed away,

And she said, "Will you remember me,

Ten thousand miles away?"

"Ten thousand miles away," Anthony repeated softly. Mrs. Lovett looked at him and smiled.

"Drunk, I expect," she said.

"Oh, I am," he admitted, although he was fairly sure she meant the man outside the window. She laughed and resumed putting away the pots and pans. The man kept singing:

Oh, dark and dismal was the day,

When last I saw my Meg,

She'd a government band around each hand and another one round her leg,

And another one round her leg, my boys,

As the big ship left the bay,

And I said that I'd be true to her,

Ten thousand miles away.

"I'd give it up, love, if I was you," Mrs. Lovett said, bringing Anthony out of his reverie.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Johanna," she told him. "Just give it up. You ain't going to find her."

For the second time in an evening, she had struck him dumb. He wanted to say that he would never stop searching for Johanna, that of course he would find her. But he couldn't.

"How long have you been looking for her?" she continued. "Two months? Three? Did you really think he'd put her where you could find her? Now, don't look like that," she admonished. "I'm only telling you this for your own good."

"You're wrong," he managed to say. "I'll find her."

"Oh, I know you enjoy it now," she went on, ignoring him. "You don't mind being in love with someone who can't love you back, maybe because that's the best you've ever had. Probably it makes you feel noble. But it'll eat at you later, Dearie, believe me."

"Johanna loves me," he said faintly. "She said so. Wherever she is, she loves me."

"How many times have you spoken to her?" she retorted. "Listen to me. It's better to forget her now, while you're still young enough to do something else with your life."

A long silence followed. The man outside sang another verse:

The sun may shine through the London fog,

Or the river run quite clear,

The ocean brine may turn to brine,

Or I'll forget my beer,

Or I'll forget my beer, my boys,

Or the landlord's quarter-pay,

Before I'd forget my own true Meg,

Ten thousand miles away.

Finally, Mrs. Lovett spoke.

"I knew a girl when I was young." Her voice sounded oddly dreamy. "She didn't have a bad life, not really, but no one ever loved her enough. Do you know what I mean by that?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Well, she ended up marrying a man, not because she loved him, but because she needed a roof over her head. As for the man…well, he liked her well enough, but really any woman would've done just as well." She paused and picked up Anthony's empty pint. "Then a couple moved in over…I mean, next door," she continued. "The wife was a nice little thing. None too bright, but a nice little thing all the same. But the man was just about everything the girl would've liked in a husband." She found a rag and began polishing the pint. "So, what did she do?" she asked. "She fell in love with him. Even after he was…I mean, after the couple moved to another part of town, she stayed in love with him. By then, her own husband was dead, and she was all alone." She gave Anthony a meaningful look. "There's a moral in that story."

In his head, he went through all the morals he had ever heard.

"Don't put all your eggs in one basket," he suggested.

"Not quite," she said, smiling. "Don't love somebody who doesn't love you."

In that moment, he knew that he had heard enough cryptic stories and sad-voiced lectures to last him the rest of his life. He rose. His legs trembled beneath him.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Lovett," he said. "I think I'll be going now."

"Alright, love." She sounded somewhat surprised. "Goodnight."


For the rest of the night, he walked alongside the Thames. He felt unreal, as if he were made of vapor or glass. He decided that he was a ghost, doomed to wander the streets of London forever, never eating, sleeping, or talking to anyone. His sailor's clothes would become more ironic by the year.

The strong smell of fish from the river brought him back to reality. He found himself standing in front of square stone building with a huge iron door. A plaque next to the door read "Fogg's Asylum". He could hear the inmates inside shrieking.

At least I'm not spending the winter there, he thought. He was about to keep walking when he heard a girl singing over the din:

Oh, mother, mother, make my bed,

Oh, make it soft and narrow,

Since my love died for me today,

I'll die for him tomorrow.

It was a wonder that he could hear her at all.

Johanna.

Slowly, he backed away from the building in order to see into the window. Then he saw her. She was leaning forward slightly, with her hands wrapped around the iron bars of the window. At first, he thought that she didn't recognize him. Then she gave him her sad half-smile.

Until the sun rose, he stayed with her.

He felt so happy that he thought he might die from it.

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed! In the next chapter: Guns! Girls! Guilt! And some interaction between Sweeney and Anthony! But not that kind of interaction! Even though I personally like that pairing! But that's another story for another day!

!!

(Punctuation is fun.)