Author's Note: As usual, it has been way, way too long since I updated this. I think it's been almost three months. I'd never abandon my baby, though. My sad, sad little baby. I didn't go with the movie or the musical version of the barbershop conversation. It starts out more like the musical, I guess, but I changed the dialogue because it looked stilted on the page. Then there's some non-canon past sharing on Johanna's part. I hope no one minds.

Disclaimer: Pretty much what you'd expect. It's not mine.

Chapter Fourteen: Shakespeare and Gloves

It couldn't have happened, Anthony told himself, as he stood guard outside the alley where Johanna had gone to change. He had already put on his old jacket. His heart beat so hard, he was sure it could be heard across the Thames. No one need have died, he thought. Mr. Todd promised. I imagined it. I was nervous, never held a gun, not enough sleep, too much ale. I should never drink, always makes me sick, but I haven't been drunk since last night. Why would it make me see things if I wasn't drunk?

He felt very dizzy. In an attempt to steady himself, he closed his eyes and leaned against the rain-slicked stone wall. Soon Johanna would be finished changing. Then they could run to Fleet Street, where they'd be safe. Everything would be fine, just fine.

"Anthony?"

Johanna's voice brought him out of his thoughts and back to the alley. He turned and saw her wearing his old trousers, coarse linen shirt, frayed blue jacket, and scuffed, thick-soled boots. Her long, yellow hair was hidden under a squashed brown cap that had once belonged to his father. She held his bag in her hands.

"Well?" she asked. "Would you recognize me?"

"Anywhere," he said automatically. She rolled her eyes and smiled. She couldn't have done it, he thought. Doing bad things to people makes you feel bad, even if they're bad people, and she's smiling. He still felt rather dizzy. He hoped she didn't notice.

"I meant the police," she told him, biting her lower lip. "Do you think I'll pass as a boy?"

"Of course," he replied. "What girl would be caught wearing my clothes?"

"I'd rather wear your clothes than what Mr. Fogg provided." She spoke his name with such bitterness that Anthony shivered. "They're warmer, at least," she continued. "Besides, I feel as if I were in a Shakespeare comedy."

"Why's that?"

Johanna stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Haven't you ever read Shakespeare?" she asked. "As You Like It? Twelfth Night? Romeo and Juliet? Hamlet?"

He shook his head.

"You do know who Shakespeare is?"

"Of course I do," he replied, embarrassed. "It's just that my family didn't have a lot of books, and I wasn't allowed near the theater. Once I snuck into a play, one about a man with a donkey's head, I think, and I got the belt twice. Once from the manager for not paying, once from my father for going at all."

"Poor Anthony, then," she said, smiling. Sighing, she added, "I'll have to tell you about Shakespeare, and Donne, and Blake, and Keats, and Tennyson, and everyone else. Imagine! You don't know anything about it."

"No," he agreed, wondering why she was so excited over his lack of education. He noticed that she was rubbing her hands together. "Do you want my gloves?"

She stared at him dubiously. He supposed that the change in subject had been a bit abrupt. Still, he felt as though she were watching him for signs of damage, possibly because he'd been doing the same thing to her.

"You only have one pair," she told him. "Won't your hands be cold?"

"Not if yours are warm." He took off his gloves and handed them to her. "It makes me cold to look at them, the way they are."

"Thank you," she replied. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Johanna," he started. She shook her head and quickly dried her eyes.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm just tired. That's all."

She gave him a weak smile and began to pull on his gloves. As he watched her, he wondered if they would always speak of Shakespeare and gloves as if nothing had happened.

Nothing did happen, he told himself. But he knew by now that telling himself something didn't necessarily make it true.

When they entered Mr. Todd's shop, nobody was there.

"No matter," he told Johanna, who was surveying the room with wide eyes. "He'll be back in a moment."

"Are you sure?" she asked. Her eyes were fixed on two photographs that stood on the washstand. One of them was of a fair-haired woman in a white dress; the other was of the same woman with an equally blonde baby. "Can he be trusted?"

"I trust him as I trust my right arm," he replied, with a little more reassurance than he felt. "He's done so much for us, Johanna. I never would've managed without him." He took her hand and squeezed it. "Now, wait for him here, and I'll return with the chaise in less than half an hour."

"Why can't I come with you?" she asked. She freed her hand from his and placed it on her hip. "We could find a chaise and leave London directly. It'd be so much quicker that way."

"I told Mr. Todd that I'd bring you here," he explained. "He'll think something happened to us if we're not here."

"Write him a letter, then. I don't want to be left alone here. I want to come with you!"

"I won't take long," he promised. He glanced out of the window and wondered if they were running out of time. "It's too dangerous on the street. Please, Johanna, just wait here."

She crossed her arms and sighed.

"Look at me," he pleaded. She obliged, although she didn't look particularly happy about it. "I'll hurry, I promise," he continued. "We'll be out of here in the next thirty minutes. I'll take you anywhere you want. We'll get married. We'll have a little house somewhere. We'll have a life together, Johanna. What happened before won't matter."

"That's not true," she told him. "It'll always matter." A shadow crossed her face. Anthony was reminded of Mr. Todd. "I've had things happen to me," she went on. "You'll have to understand that if you want to marry me. I'm not some princess that's been kept in a tower just for you. I'm not pure. I'm not even good."

He started to object. He started to say that she was wonderful, that he wasn't any good without her, but she wouldn't stop talking.

"You know," she said. "You saw me kill a man. I'm glad that I killed him, too. Hasn't anyone ever hurt you so badly that you wanted them to hurt as much as you did? Haven't you ever met someone who needed to be stopped before they hurt anyone else like that? Isn't there someone that you'd kill if you could?"

"Yes," he said, but she didn't seem to hear.

"I've never been good," she continued. "It's in my blood. My father…the judge, I mean…he used to say so. He said my real father was a convict. He was a thief and a murderer who beat and then abandoned my mother. She killed herself because of him. His name was Benjamin Barker. That makes me Johanna Barker. His daughter. Isn't that awful?"

"That's not your fault." Anthony felt sick to his stomach when he thought of the judge making Johanna feel guilty about something that she couldn't help. "That doesn't make you bad."

"The sins of the father are visited on the children," she replied bitterly. "Haven't you heard? He used to make me pray over it. 'On your knees, Johanna. No, Johanna, God hasn't forgiven you yet. Pray more, Johanna.' He wasn't happy until I had tears streaming down my face. I mean my father the judge, not God. I don't know what God thought about it."

"Johanna..." That was all that he could say. Luckily, she seemed to understand.

"It's fine," she told him. "Just put your arms around me and kiss me before you go."

Gladly, he obeyed. She sighed contentedly.

"You're so warm," she said. "You don't know how cold I've been. How cold I've always been."

Author's Note: This is nowhere near the end of the story, by the way. There's going to be some trouble with the police, an appearance by Mrs. Bamford, a few funerals, a wedding, and muffins. Also, there's a lot of stuff after that. The thing is, I'm not sure whether to write a sequel or just keep adding chapters to this story. I don't know if it matters, but anyone who has a preference should speak up.