Chapter Fifteen: These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

Guilt is a many-layered thing.

Is it enough to do something terrible for a good reason? Is it murder if one never lifted a hand to injure? If the one to die has done nothing but harm is it still a sin? Or a good deed? And would it have been the worse sin to allow his reign of terror to continue unimpeded?

These questions have plagued her days, every waking moment consumed by her burning curiosity and every dream filled with blood-stained hands and harm coming to her family because of what she has done. For if they are discovered, it will not be Johanna who faces the consequences. To her great shame, she had allowed herself to be sheltered like a child while her father and Auntie Nell to commit the deed and she reaped the reward. Her dear father, returned at last to a normal life, only to find himself truly a criminal. Aunt Nell, who has raised Johanna like a mother all these years, repaid in blood. All for her sake.

Nothing at all has made sense since Anthony was taken. Johanna can only hope that with his return, everything in her tumultuous world will begin to right itself again. Even the thought of him is nearly enough to soothe her conflicted heart. Johanna smiles to herself, face tipped into the wind as she stands outside Newgate. Today, her Anthony is coming home.

The mysterious disappearance of Judge Turpin has thrown quite the wrench in court proceedings as everyone scrambled to find a proper replacement. Johanna knows nothing of the man they had appointed but standing outside the jail for the last half hour, anxiously waiting for Anthony to appear, she has heard much gossip on the subject. The new Judge is apparently quite young, but stern and fair. Already, he has more favor among the people than Turpin ever did. To Johanna's eternal gratitude, he had dismissed Anthony's case entirely – citing a lack of proper evidence and a previously clean record.

It had all worked out, just as her father and Auntie Nell had promised. So why can't her mind rest?

Johanna grips the basket in her hands, fingers aching from the strain. She'd packed a picnic for the two of them, knowing Anthony would be famished after spending time in prison awaiting trial. Johanna doesn't know much about prison aside from what she reads in her books and those storybook characters are always hungry – nothing but skin and bones from gnawing on stale bread and putrid water. She had spent the morning packing a proper feast for the two of them, hoping for a quiet afternoon in the park. After believing she might never see Anthony again, nothing sounds quite as wonderful as spending the day with him – hearing his voice and seeing him smile at her again.

She needs to look upon him to know she had succeeded. She needs to know she had not done something so atrocious in vain. Her mother and Auntie Nell had never seen fit to step foot inside any church but Johanna needs no priest to tell her she has committed an abomination. She had acted as God, deciding who must live and who must die. And yet what would have happened if she had not chosen? Anthony would have been sent away, just like her father. Judge Turpin would have pursued her like a bloodhound, never stopping until he had her. And what would have become of Johanna then? She'd heard plenty of horror stories surrounding Turpin's exploits from the maids employed at the Foster residence.

Johanna knows, deep down, she had done a great service for so many young, vulnerable girls who hadn't the privilege of ever saying no to a man like him. She has been telling herself this for days but making her guilty heart believe it is another matter entirely.

The sound of the gate opening startles Johanna into glancing up from her morose study of the ground beneath her feet. Anthony stands in front of her, pale and haggard. His hair, usually so soft and lovely, hangs limply around his face. His clothes are rumpled beyond hope and with stubble covering his cheeks and jaw he looks more like a sailor than he ever has before. Absolutely none of that matters to Johanna because the moment he sees her waiting for him, he breaks into a beaming smile that brings tears to her eyes.

Dropping the basket into the dust, Johanna rushes across the distance between them and throws herself into Anthony's waiting arms. He clutches her to him, stumbling a little as he struggles to keep them both upright instead of sinking to the filthy ground. "My Johanna," he whispers, stroking her hair. "You are truly a sight for sore eyes."

She buries her face in his neck and stifles a sob at the sound of his voice. "Oh, Anthony," she chokes, clinging to him with all her might. He has never felt quite so frail to her before. She had done the right thing. How could she ever even think of letting anything happen to this lovely man? "I've missed you."

"Not half as much as I missed you." Still smiling, Anthony pulls away just enough to cup her cheeks in his dirty hands. His eyes soften immeasurably as he studies her, taking in her tear-stained face with the dedicated devotion of a man who thought he would never see her again. "I told you everything would be alright, didn't I?"

"You did," she says, putting on a brave smile for him. She lifts a hand to cover his on her cheek. "And it is, now that you're here now."

"I could say the same of you but truthfully, you never really left. You were always there, sitting in the dark beside me." Anthony leans in, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "But I promise to never wander from you side again."

Johanna shakes her head, looking up into sparkling eyes. "Well that sounds terribly dull. Just promise to take me with you next time and you may wander wherever you like."

"I shall. Always." To her confusion, he carefully extricates himself from her desperate grasp and takes a step back. "But I must ask something of you first."

She stares at him, brow furrowed. "What-"

Slowly, Anthony sinks down onto one knee right there on the cobbled street, narrowly missing a puddle. His eyes never leave hers. "I've been sitting in a cell for three days, wondering if you were alright and if I would ever get the chance to look upon your face again. My only regret was that I might die having never called you my wife."

Johanna breathes in sharply, chest tightening. "Anthony-"

"I swore an oath to myself that if I ever regained my freedom, I would rectify that mistake swiftly." Anthony reaches for her hand, his touch gentle and his smile brighter than the daylight around them. "Johanna Barker, would you make me the happiest man alive and do me the extraordinary honor of marrying me?"

Blinking back tears, Johanna laughs. "It would be my extraordinary honor to accept, Mr. Hope."

Gripping his hand, she drops to her knees right alongside him and she doesn't manage to avoid the puddle at all, soaking her skirts in muddy water and heaven only knows what else. She barely notices, throwing her arms around his neck. Anthony hugs her close and they both laugh, shaking and giddy as they cling to one another in the middle of the street. And for one beautiful moment, nothing is wrong at all.

Nellie has no real experience with the bliss that usually accompanies an engagement. Her own marriage had been more of a business transaction she had been pushed into by her poor mother, who never could manage to put enough food on the table to feed all of her children. It had been a practical arrangement. Albert had needed a wife and Nellie had been eager to get away from her overbearing mother and five older brothers. She had always imagined, however, that couples who married because they loved each other were happy to be engaged.

So Johanna's complete lack of interest in the entire affair puzzles her.

It isn't even Nellie's wedding and she's excited, picturing Johanna in her dress and conjuring up elaborate decorations and feasts that she'd shower on the girl if only she had the money to do so. She wants to talk about how they'll style her hair for the day and whether she'd prefer a chocolate or vanilla wedding cake. Johanna doesn't seem to want to discuss any of it, eyeing fabric swatches with disinterest and frowning whenever the subject of invitations comes up.

Of course, there is a part of Nellie that wants to curl up in a ball and weep over the loss of her little Johanna. Her only child and dearest friend is engaged to be married and she is one step closer to losing the girl forever. Anthony has remained in London all this time solely for Johanna but the boy is a sailor at heart. Once the two are married, Nellie has no doubt they'll be off gallivanting around the world in newly-wedded bliss. Johanna has always wanted to travel and Anthony loves her too much not to give her whatever she desires.

Her only consolation is that she will not be left alone.

Thoughts lingering on strong hands and biting kisses, Nellie stares for a beat too long at the selection of roses on display. Heat creeps up the back of her neck and into her cheeks. She breathes out a shaky sigh and tugs at the bodice of her dress, clearing her throat as she turns to Johanna. To her relief, the girl isn't even looking at her. "What do you think? Too much red?"

Johanna blinks, faraway gaze drifting back to the flowers. "They're fine."

With a frown, Nellie turns and keeps walking. Johanna follows sedately behind her. It had been Nellie's idea to visit the flower market today, hoping to get a few ideas for Johanna's bouquet while also managing to drag the girl out of the house for a while. She has been quiet lately. Too quiet. Having raised the girl practically in her image, Nellie is well aware that silence for either one of them never bodes well. Johanna learned to talk when she was two years old and she hasn't really stopped since.

Slowing to browse at a stall selling marigolds, Nellie plucks one from a huge bouquet and holds it up for Johanna to examine. "What about this one? Matches your hair."

Johanna barely glances at her. "Whatever you like, Auntie Nell."

With a huff, Nellie tucks the flower back into the bouquet. She turns, hands on her hips. "No, not what I like. What you like." She arches an eyebrow when Johanna frowns. "Your wedding, your rules, love."

"I told you, none of this is important to me." Johanna reaches out a hand, stroking a yellow petal thoughtfully. "I want you to bake the cake and Mother to make my dress. As long as Anthony is at the end of the aisle to meet me none of the other things matter at all."

Nellie studies her carefully. "So you 'ave no opinion on the bouquet?"

Johanna shakes her head. "None."

"Rubbish."

"I beg your pardon-"

Nellie snatches Johanna's hand in hers and turns on her heel, dragging the girl with her through the crowded market stalls. The mixture of floral scents wafting through the air and the usual fetid London air makes for a heady atmosphere and Nellie wrinkles her nose as she forges ahead, in search of privacy. Or close to it as anyone can get in this godforsaken city. Behind her, Johanna struggles mildly and makes a token protest at being tugged along like a child but one quick glare from Nellie quiets her.

Finally settling on a deserted alleyway that smells like piss just on the outskirts of the crowded market, Nellie pushes Johanna gently into the shadows and whirls to face her properly. "Listen 'ere, young lady. I've known you since you were born and I'm well aware you 'ave an opinion on absolutely bloomin' everything. Buggerin' hell, you 'ad an opinion on the color of the curtains in my bloody bedroom. So you might as well stop mopin' about and 'fess up right this instant."

Johanna, who had been flushed with righteous indignation at being dragged through the market by the hand and scolded like a misbehaving brat, wilts at once. She tucks a blonde curl behind her ear and leans against the grimy brick wall of the building behind her, arms crossed over her chest.

At her continued silence, Nellie sighs. "Is it too much to ask for a bit of excitement, at least for my sake? S'not every day your li'tle girl gets married, after all. Felt like I was walkin' around with your father out there."

Biting her lip, Johanna looks pained. "I'm sorry for being such a wet blanket, Auntie Nell."

Nellie shrugs. "S'alright. Everyone's got a right every now and then, I s'pose. Just want you to talk to me." She reaches out a hand, tugging playfully on a lock of her hair. "What's the matter? Change your mind about your sailor boy?"

"Of course not." Johanna swats her hand away, frowning. "I love Anthony and I want to marry him. Really. It just seems so…trivial to be planning a wedding when only just last week I…" She pauses, lowering her voice like they might be overheard even over the awful din of the market just paces away. "I killed a man."

Ah. So that's what the matter is. Nellie scoffs. "You didn't kill anyone. You wrote a letter."

With a scowl, Johanna points out, "A letter that led directly to his death."

"It also led to your dear fiancé's freedom in case you forgot." Nellie leans against the opposite wall, arms folded over her chest and ankles crossed. The brick at her back feels moist with only God knows what but she doesn't move, studying the anguished expression on Johanna's face. "It was a fair trade, love. A life for a life."

Johanna shakes her head. "But it wasn't our choice to make."

"Well then…I'm sorry."

Pausing, Johanna stares at her. "What?"

Nellie ducks her head, staring at the pavement beneath her boots. "It's my fault you feel this way. I got you involved in all this and now you can't even look at me. Bloody hell, you can't even enjoy your own engagement and that's cause of me." She purses her lips, a tremble in her voice. "You trusted me and I've ruined everything, love."

For a long moment, Johanna gapes at her in bewildered silence. "What are you-" She shakes her head. "Of course I'm not – don't be silly, Auntie Nell!"

"S'alright, dear." Nellie forces a thin smile, waving her off. "You don't have to try and make me feel better. You see me as some kind of monster now-"

"I do not!" Johanna very nearly stamps her foot, petulant as any child in her adamance. "You protected me!"

Nellie tilts her head, brow furrowed. "Did I?"

"Of course!" Johanna drops her folded arms, taking a step forward to grasp Nellie's hand tightly between her own. "Who knows what would have happened if you and my father hadn't stepped in. You saved me."

Satisfied, Nellie drops the wounded act and allows a slow smirk to curl her mouth. With an encouraging raise of an eyebrow, she asks, "Y'mean like you saved Anthony?"

Johanna goes still, eyes narrowing into slits. She drops Nellie's hand instantly, as though scalded. "You tricked me."

Nellie smiles. "Only a li'tle."

Looking betrayed, Johanna retreats back to her side of the alley with a little growl entirely too reminiscent of her father. "That wasn't very nice."

"Well, you were talkin' nonsense. I did what I 'ad to." Nellie shrugs, her eyes finding Johanna's meaningfully. "We all do what we 'ave to for each other. S'called bein' a family. Nothin' to be ashamed of, love."

Johanna blinks back tears, lips pursed tight. "You don't think I'm a bad person?"

It takes every ounce of strength within her not to cross the alley and gather the girl into her arms but Nellie knows Johanna too well. She wouldn't want to be coddled right now. Arms wrapped tight around her middle in order to keep them to herself, Nellie gazes softly at her little imp and whispers, "I think you're perfect."

With a scoff, Johanna mutters, "Auntie Nell, stop it."

"Oi, I'm serious. You're my hero, love." She tips her head back against the wall, her curls catching on the rough brick. "You did a good thing. Rid the world of a horrid man what never done anyone a bit of good in his whole miserable life. Never uttered so much as a kind word 'cept to his own reflection in a mirror."

Johanna stifles a tearful snort of laughter, hand pressed to her mouth. "Auntie Nell-"

The scandalized affection in the girl's voice is enough to allow Nellie to relax, beaming at Johanna in relief. There she is, her little hellion. Turpin will never have her. "What?" She asks, blinking innocently. "S'true. Vain creature, 'e was."

Johanna shakes her head, still smiling.

Pushing herself off the wall and dropping her arms to her sides, Nellie ventures hopefully, "Don't s'pose I could 'ave a hug now? I know you're a grown up, soon-to-be-married lady an' all but I think I could quite use one if you don't mind."

Between one breath and the next, Johanna is in her arms – nestled snugly against Nellie's chest the way she always used to do as a child. Wrapping her arms around the girl's slender frame, Nellie presses a fond kiss to her cheek and smiles. "It's alright now, darlin'. Everything's goin' to be just fine." She swallows tightly, thinking of Mr. Todd and Lucy and all the things yet to come to light. She has never lied to Johanna before Sweeney Todd came along and she can't help feeling a little resentful toward him for that. "I promise."

Johanna sniffles, pulling back to swipe a slender hand over her damp cheek. "Thanks, Auntie Nell."

"My pleasure." She winks. "Now please, for the love of everythin' holy, pick some bloody flowers, eh?"

With a watery chuckle, Johanna tucks her arm into Nellie's and tugs, leading her back in the direction of the market. "What do you think about daisies?"

There are things Sweeney Todd will never talk about. Horrors too terrible to name, suffering so intense it would bring tears to the eyes of even the vilest of men. It had changed him, molded him into the man who had emerged from Benjamin Barker's lifeless corpse. There isn't much left in this cesspit of a world that could shock him. But as hardened a man as Botany Bay had made him, Sweeney still finds it difficult to watch Beadle Bamford eat.

On a typical night, his disgusting table manners would make the sight of him slobbering over his plate nauseating enough but tonight, the meat in Bamford's pie is… special. Judge Turpin's clothing had been burnt up in the incinerator; his watch and other personal effects had been pawned three towns over for a pretty penny. The only thing left of Turpin is currently sitting on the Beadle's half empty plate as he shoves mouthful after mouthful down his greedy gullet.

He catches Nellie's arm as she winds her way through the crowded pie shop, meaty fingers curling proprietarily around her wrist. Sweeney tenses. Over the general merriment of the dinner rush, he listens as the Beadle praises, "Your best yet, my dear."

Carefully extricating herself from his greasy fingers, Nellie reaches out and pats his arm with a murmured, "Old family recipe."

As she turns away, she catches Sweeney's eye and winks.

He goes back to his drink, taking a long draught to conceal the smirk on his face.

On days the pie shop is open, he and Nellie don't get the chance to speak until long after the last customer has left. As has become his custom in recent days, he waits for her in the parlor at the end of the night, listening to her chatter to Toby as the two of them clean up. In his lap, he turns the page of one of Johanna's books he'd nicked from a shelf upstairs – a clear favorite, judging by the battered cover and well-worn pages.

His daughter had returned to her duties at the Foster residence yesterday and Sweeney already misses her fiercely. She brings a light to this house that when taken away, leaves them all a little duller in the absence of her brilliance. He doesn't know what he'll do when Anthony finally spirits her away from them but it's a small comfort to know Nellie will be just as lost without the girl.

They'll manage somehow – together.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Nellie finally strolls into the parlor with a bottle of gin dangling from her fingertips. "'ow is it people just get more and more slovenly every single night?" She asks, and though he doesn't glance up from his book, he watches out of the corner of his eye as she rounds the coffee table. "Messy bunch of heathens, the lot of 'em. And lousy bloody tippers. My poor bones are ready to drop."

She collapses onto the settee beside him, skirts billowing around her and the cork of the bottle between her teeth. She tosses it onto the table and lifts the bottle to her lips, not bothering with a glass. Apparently, it had been quite a crowd tonight. She proves him correct when she turns to him, the thrill of whatever salacious piece of news she'd learned from a customer clear on her face.

"Remember that arrogant li'tle fop from May Fair always comin' in 'ere with his pretty wife hangin' off his arm? Floyd, 'is name is. Dropped her off at Bedlam last Thursday, from what I 'eard. Should 'ave seen him droolin' over the Mayhew twins tonight. Ruddy animal." She takes a swig from the bottle in her animated hands and lights up mid-sip. "Oh and wait 'til I tell you 'bout Father Owens' new opium habit."

Sweeney lets her carry on, filling the silence with her gossip. He thinks he used to find it grating when he first arrived but now the sound of her voice is so familiar to him that her nightly habit of regaling him with the sordid lives of her customers is almost a source of comfort to him now. He barely listens, letting her happy chatter wash over him like a tide of gentle water.

He stares at the page in front of him, not really seeing the words now. She sits closer to him than propriety would allow but Nellie has never been one for doing things the proper way. They're alone, anyway. He allows himself to relax into the heady warmth of her at his side, breathing in the scent of fresh pastry clinging to her clothes and the strong scent of gin drifting from the open bottle in her hand.

When she runs out of things to tell him, she asks, "Drink?"

He shakes his head, feeling drunk enough without the help of alcohol. Nellie Lovett is far more dangerous than gin.

"Suit yourself." She tips the bottle again, perfectly happy not sharing. Her head drifts to his shoulder, nestling there like she belongs. It's his natural instinct after all these years to stiffen when his personal space has been breached in such a way but Nellie doesn't take offense, waiting patiently for the tension to seep from his bones again.

Slowly, he focuses less on the part of him screaming too close and turns his attention to the scent of her, to the softness of her pressed so close, and her hair tickling his jaw. There are very few people allowed this near to him but Nellie is perhaps more welcome than most. He eases back into the settee cushions, white-knuckled grip relaxing on his book.

As if feeling the tension bleeding out of him, Nellie sighs happily.

He cannot remember the last time anyone sounded so content to be this close to him and the blissful little noise melts him far more than he'd care to admit. Without taking his eyes from the blurred page in front of him, Sweeney taps a fingertip against the bottle settled on her lap. "Bad night then?"

She hums, stifling a yawn. "Getting better."

Sensing her dark eyes studying his profile, Sweeney doesn't look at her. She hardly needs the encouragement and he doesn't fancy allowing her to see how deeply she affects him with so little effort – not yet, anyway. "How's the boy working out?"

"Toby?" She smiles, distracted from her flirtations briefly. "Oh, I sent 'im to my room to sleep so we could 'ave the parlor. But 'e's a dear thing. Course, e's no Johanna but I think he'll do quite nicely. Sweet lad, 'e is." She traces a fingertip around the mouth of her bottle, smudging the rouge she'd left behind. Sweeney tracks the movement of her hand with interest. "Poor mite 'as been through too much for a boy 'is age. Makes me want to wrap 'im up nice and tight and… I dunno, feed him till he bursts."

Sweeney arches an eyebrow, flicking to the next page in his book despite not having the faintest idea what the previous one had even said. "Don't remember agreeing to more children," he grumbles.

"More?" Nellie scoffs, lifting her head from his shoulder. "Didn't know we 'ad any, love."

He doesn't look at her. "Johanna."

Nellie goes still beside him. He can't even hear her breathing and for a moment, he worries she might have stopped. "What?"

He flips to another page, annoyed with himself for noticing how cold his shoulder is without her head upon it. "She's as much yours as she is mine."

Swallowing audibly, Nellie breathes out a shaky sigh. "Sweeney Todd," she whispers, and when he hears the note of tears in her voice, he finally turns his head to stare at her warily. "Sometimes, I think you might be the most maddening, useless brute I've ever met. And then you go and say somethin' like that." She reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek and everything in him seizes up and shudders at her touch. "Think I might keep you, after all."

Instead of surging forward and kissing her the way his whole body seems to be screaming for, Sweeney raises an eyebrow at her and turns back to his book. "Generous of you."

"That's me," she says, leaning forward to settle the gin on the table with a noisy thunk. "Generous to a fault." Perched on the edge of the settee, she hesitates, glancing over shoulder to study him. "'ave you talked to 'er?"

He knows without needing to ask who she's referring to. His jaw tightens and he shakes his head, thoughts straying to his wife, likely stitching by firelight upstairs. "No. You?"

Nellie purses her lips, glancing away. "Not since I found out she knew. Been avoidin' me." She huffs a stray curl from her eyes, frowning. "Can't say I blame her."

He nods, an ache in his chest when he thinks of Lucy carrying this burden around on her own without a soul to talk to. He imagines it might have been something she would have confided in Nellie once, before he'd driven such a wedge between them. Despite her general disapproval of most everything Nellie says and does, Lucy seemed to adhere to her advice often enough. "Tomorrow," he says, though he's been telling himself that for days now.

Though she doesn't say it, he knows Nellie must be thinking the same thing. She sighs, watching him with pity. "Don't know what to say to 'er, do you?"

Sweeney hasn't known how to talk to Lucy since the moment he returned to her. If he'd ever figured it out, he doubts he would be sitting on this sofa right now. And while he will always regret hurting Lucy, he can't ever regret Nellie. "Any suggestions?"

She reaches for the bottle again, as though needing a great deal more to carry on this conversation. "Well," she says, bringing the bottle to her lips. "You could always try the usual – it's not you, it's me."

Mouth twitching with the urge to smile, Sweeney offers her a mild glare.

"No?" She taps her fingers against the neck of the bottle. "You… need space?"

He frowns, shaking his head. "Had fifteen years of it."

"Right." Nellie worries her bottom lip between her teeth. The sight is so distracting he has to look away again. "What about… you love 'er but you're not in love with 'er anymore."

Sweeney plucks the gin from her loose grip and takes a long pull from the bottle. Grimacing as it burns a path down his throat, he rasps, "Anything that isn't a cliché from one of your torrid romance novels?"

"Oi, insultin' me won't get you gin, Sir." Nellie snatches the bottle away from him, tucking it behind her back before he can make a grab for it again. She holds up a hand, a mischievous grin curling her tempting mouth. "Wait, I've got one. Tell 'er you're very sorry, but a beautiful, charming piemaker 'as swept you off your feet and ruined you for other women."

She waggles her brows at him, the laughter in her eyes telling him she fully expects him to scoff at her ridiculous antics and demand another suggestion. Enthralled by the playful smile lighting up her face, Sweeney doesn't offer any objection. Instead, he lifts a hand to cup her face in his palm, gratified when Nellie draws closer to him without prompting. Thumb stroking over her cheekbone, he allows himself a single moment to lose himself in the depths of her wicked gaze.

"Better," he whispers, and kisses her.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs separates them. Sweeney retreats to his end of the settee and snatches up his abandoned book. With a muttered curse, Nellie flees the settee entirely, taking the gin with her as she moves to the other side of the room to stand in front of the fire. By the time Lucy appears in the doorway, they're as far apart as possible but the flush in their cheeks likely gives them away despite their efforts.

Their attempts to appear casual had been in vain, however, because Lucy doesn't even look at Nellie. Face pale and tear-stained, she stands trembling in the doorway. In one shaking hand, she holds up one of his razors. In the other, a letter. Sweeney recognizes the tidy, curling penmanship instantly. Even if he didn't know his daughter's handwriting so well, the smear of blood at the corner of the page would have identified the letter's origins well enough.

He'd been wrong before when he'd thought Beadle Bamford had eaten the last of the evidence of their crime. The night of Turpin's murder had been a long one, full of things to fret over – Johanna, Lucy, disposing of the body, the distracting pull of Nellie's kisses – and he had forgotten one last important piece of the puzzle.

Johanna's letter to Turpin.

Nellie had fished it from the Judge's pocket before they moved the body, searching him for a coin purse and other valuables they might benefit from. She'd handed the letter to Sweeney, muttering something about needing to burn it. He had promised to do it after they'd dealt with the body, tucking it into a drawer in his shop for safekeeping. And subsequently forgotten all about it.

Until now.

"Where did you get that?"

He doesn't realize he'd leapt to his feet until Lucy flinches away from him, crumpling the letter in her fist. "I was looking for matches and found it in a drawer." Her breath escapes her in a quiet sob and he hates himself for putting that anguished look on her face. "Benjamin, this letter – it's… What did you make our daughter do?"

He shakes his head. "I didn't-"

"Are you implying she wrote this of her own free will? These awful things about Anthony? Asking Judge Turpin to meet her here the very night of his disappearance?" Lucy scoffs, blinking away tears. "You think me an imbecile, Benjamin?"

On the other side of the room, movement startles them both into looking away from each other and Sweeney finally remembers Nellie is there. She has been so unusually quiet he had forgotten. The sight of her, even as pale and uncertain as she looks now, is calming enough to make him unclench his fists. "Now Lucy," she says, her voice soft and persuasive. "Let's sit down and talk about this properly-"

"Stay away from me." Lucy snaps, recoiling from her. Her grip on the razor in her hand tightens and Sweeney tenses all over again, taking a tentative step forward. "You're vile – both of you." Her voice wavers. "And you've corrupted my child."

Nellie holds up her hands and takes a step back, making a show of staying near the fireplace and far from Lucy. "No, we 'elped her save 'er fiancé from a death sentence."

"You killed a man." Lucy moves suddenly, tossing the razor at Sweeney's feet like she cannot stand to have it near her for another moment. "With that. Don't even try to deny it."

Keeping his movements slow and cautious, Sweeney bends to pluck the razor from the floor. The moment he feels the silver warming beneath his palm, something in him eases. Years of being on the defensive, he supposes. If you didn't carry a weapon in Australia, however crude it may have been, you were as good as dead. "I'm not denying it," he says, looking his wife in the eye now. "I did the killing, not Johanna."

Lucy purses trembling lips, her blue eyes bright with tears. "How could you?"

How could he?

His lip curls. "After everything he's done to us, what he tried to do to our daughter – you're defending him?"

"I'm not defending him," Lucy snaps, holding up the crumpled letter. "But murder-"

"He ruined our lives!"

Lucy shrinks away from him, cowering against the doorframe behind her. The letter flutters from her hand and lands in a ruined heap at her slippered feet. Tears streaming down her face, and wide eyes pleading, she says, "Nothing justifies murder. My life was ruined too. But it made me stronger, not filled with hate and vengeance."

The laugh ripped from his throat is strange and bitter, rough from disuse. He sneers, fingers tightening around the razor in his grasp. "Keeping your head in the clouds isn't strength, wife – it's naïveté. If you'll recall, that's never done us any favors before."

Lucy sniffles, reaching up a hand to wipe at her damp cheek. She straightens from her cower against the doorframe, smoothing a hand over her dress. "Oh, and I suppose your Eleanor is strong then? You admire her for willingly committing murder, stealing your affections, and telling our daughter how cruel the world really is?"

"Don't," he snarls, taking another step toward her before he can stop himself. Johanna would likely not be here at all if Nellie hadn't stepped in when Lucy was too consumed with grief to care for her. "Don't you dare speak ill of her."

Pain flashes briefly in her eyes before she looks away, lips pursed as she composes herself. In the brief silence, Sweeney hears nothing but the crackling of the fire and the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. No one seems to even be breathing.

Finally, without looking up from the delicate lace of her dress sleeve, Lucy declares, "I won't tell the police what you've done only because Johanna would be taken away for her involvement." She lifts her head then and Sweeney has never seen her usually warm gaze so cold and without feeling. "But I can go to the police and tell them who Sweeney Todd really is."

He stares at her in horrified silence. On the other side of the room, he hears Nellie make a strangled noise of anguish. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her grip the edge of the mantle as though her knees have given out from under her. His ears start to ring. His vision narrows and tunnels and for a moment he fears he might pass out. In a daze, he mumbles, "They'll send me back."

Lucy watches him without pity. "I know," she whispers. "I wish you had never come back at all. I wish you had just left me with memories of the man you used to be. I could have lived out my life looking at your pictures and thinking you loved me. I wouldn't have had to witness the monster you've become."

"Lucy," Nellie gasps, still sounding choked. "You can't do this."

"But I can." Lucy musters a tremulous, heartbreaking smile. "I can get along just fine without him. I have all these years. And it's best for Johanna too, even if she might not see it now. We'll leave the pie shop and go somewhere far from here. We'll start over."

Nellie shakes her head frantically, releasing her iron grip on the mantle to take a tentative step forward. "You don't 'ave to go anywhere. Be sensible, now. You can barely afford to live 'ere and it's the cheapest you'll find. You think someone else is going to let the rent slide every other month and clean up after you?" She attempts a comforting smile but even from here Sweeney can see the same fear he feels in her eyes. "Come now, love. Just calm down and let us explain."

Lucy begins to shake her head and Sweeney knows nothing either of them can say will change her mind. She will go to the police and tell them an escaped convict is living on Fleet Street. He'll be sent away back to hell, away from his child. Away from Nellie. He feels as though he stands in a dream; everything is very far away and not quite real. Even the voices of Lucy and Nellie echo. Struggling to hold onto reality, he orders softly, "Stay out of this, Nellie."

"It's Nellie now, is it?" Lucy asks, and her smile is more of a grimace. "All this time I didn't want to believe you, but you were right. You are not the man I married. And I won't let you anywhere near my daughter again. Either of you."

Before Sweeney can utter a word to stop her, she turns on her heel and flees the room. He hears her footsteps in the pie shop, making her way toward the door, and reacts without thought. He cannot let her go to the police. He will not be torn away from his family again. Storming out of the parlor and charging after her, he hears Nellie scrambling to follow. He skids down the corridor and rounds the corner, staggering into the pie shop. He catches up with Lucy just as she reaches the door, fingers catching on the sleeve of her dress. He yanks her back with a growl.

Lucy lashes out the moment he touches her, a high-pitched shriek of fear that pierces him down to his soul. "Don't touch me," she cries, struggling in his grasp. Her other hand, small and ineffectual, slaps at his chest and his face in her desperate struggle. "Let go!"

"Lucy, stop it," he orders, breath coming in harsh pants as he tries to drag her from the door. "You'll alert the whole street."

"So be it then," she hisses. "You'll pay for what you've done to this family. I'll go right to the Judge himself-" With a sharp cry, Lucy wrenches free of his grip at last. Her eyes are wide and angry and he can see in her determined gaze that she's about to try to make a run for the door again.

He tenses, ready to stop her.

At a standstill, no one moves or speaks for several long, miserable seconds. The pie shop is dark and quiet but the typical sounds of London nightlife reach their ears – the addicts stumbling to and from opium dens, the whores standing on the corner down the street trying to entice the drunks away from the pub, the shatter of glass as the couple three houses away has yet another argument over gambling debts. London does not ever sleep. The constant sounds of life had been nearly unbearable when he first returned, unused to the noise after that wasteland with only screams and the sound of the whip for company. Now, London is home once more. He cannot go back to that awful silence.

If he lets her, Lucy will go straight to the authorities and have him sent away. He'll never see Johanna again; never walk her down the aisle like he'd planned; never watch her blossom into a mother with children of her own. He'll never see Nellie again; never hold her or kiss her again; never get to live the quiet life he has longed for all these years. That life used to be an instinct blur in his head but it's begun to take shape in recent days. No Judge, no nightmares, just peace and Johanna and Nellie. And now it all begins to crumble to dust right before his eyes. There will be nothing but darkness and silence and oppressive heat for the rest of his days.

His chest heaves, the terror settling in anew.

He won't go back. He won't go back. He won't –

Lucy moves quickly, lunging for the door.

NO.

Cornered and frightened like an animal, Sweeney lashes out to stop her.

He doesn't remember the razor still in his hand until he hears the unmistakable sound of it slicing through skin and bone, tearing muscle and ligaments. The gurgle of someone struggling to breathe. The heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Nellie's strangled gasp. Gradually, the haze of panic lifts and the horror sets in.

At his feet, Lucy lies. Dead.