I. March 19, 1848. London, England. 9:43 am.

"Eat your breakfast."

"It's not red. I used to eat red things," he rasps intently. Another morning, another breakfast run. Another lunatic with a story she simply must hear.

"It's oatmeal. It's not supposed to be red."

"It was red, for some reason it was always red. Like blood is red or the front door here is red. Ma used to make red soups for me, and they were delicious. I like the color red, but then I started seeing too much of it. Too much of a good thing, that's not good, right? Red in the gutter, red on her apron…"

"Who's apron?"

"Why, Mrs. Lovett's, o'course."

"Of course."

Number 102. Tobias Ragg, a recent acquisition recovered from a rather nasty display of murder down on Fleet Street. She was up all last night trying to tend to his fever, and she overdid it a bit with some of the standard medications. He's much better, and these are the first intelligible words he's said in weeks.

But she's heard Mrs. Lovett's name before. He talks in his sleep, like so many of the others. Mrs. Lovett must play quite the role in his nightmares.

"Oatmeal's really runny, reminds me of gin. She gave me gin, the first time was… the day Signor Pirelli disappeared. I remember it because of the purse. The purse… did it burn too? What with the few quid that were in it and it makes sense that she still has a few quid. Mrs. Lovett says you shan't go anywhere without a few quid. She'll go to the pawn shop this morning and buy herself a nice necklace. She said she had her eye on one, I remember."

She guides another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. He's in a straightjacket most of the time because no one can really be sure if he murdered the people found on Fleet Street. He doesn't have the temperament of murderer, though. She's actually more inclined to believe that without the straightjacket, he'd hurt himself.

"You don't suppose it's going to rain? Rain's bad for business, and I know. That's what Mrs. Lovett says all the time. But it's good for the flowers, that's what she says. I don't see outside much, but the lady next to me has a window. Sometimes I look out of it and think that she can see me."

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Yes. No. My ma. I don't remember much excepting that she likes flowers. The flowers were red too and the soup and it makes sense. Mrs. Lovett likes flowers and they both got flowers for him. And then they died, those flowers. Pirelli used to say what's gone is gone, and that's what he said when he took me off the street. Cause my mother is… was… gone. Is the oatmeal gone?"

"No, there's still half a bowl," she mutters idly.

"Did I have a sister? I dumped a bucket of cold water on her once. She screamed so loud I swear half of London heard her. So loud. Did you hear her? Were you in London? Are we in London? Worst pies in the world or just London, but people loved 'em. Love, she says, is the special ingredient, and hard work and time and care and love. And fingernails. Damned fingernails or something. How about you? Shave and a haircut? You're in a fine mood today…"

She's a bit weary today, and this is just some disjointed rambling, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Time is relative here, and sometimes past events bleed together in the inmates' minds. But they never address her personally. They talk to the wall or the ghosts of their past lives, but never to her. She ignores it. He thinks she's someone else.

"Fine mood and Toby, mind the gentlemen, and I used to pray to the Virgin Mary. I did, and I would ask her if she could send me someone who loved me. That was my mother or a statue, but she answered my prayer, she did. It wasn't Pirelli, but Mrs. Lovett, of course. Of course! It's Mrs. Lovett and she knits for me and gets me bonbons. Maybe if I'm good, you could, or something? Mrs. Lovett says that I can have anything I want and all I have to say is please. Please?"

"Mrs. Lovett was wrong."

She says it slowly and deliberately, accenting every syllable so that it will sink in. He'll learn that no one ever gets what they want by just asking. Nothing is ever that simple.

She feeds him the last bit of oatmeal. He stares up at her as if waiting for her to say something. There is something chillingly needy about his eyes. Mrs. Lovett, whoever she was, felt sorry for him. She shouldn't think much of it; this Mrs. Lovett is probably dead.

"Wrong. Very wrong. She washes bed sheets in cold water and sings while she works and I don't know what she does. It's not right or Christian and he put her up to it, I'm sure. There's red in the lavabo, always was. I won't think about it, and I promised her I wouldn't. But sometimes… he beats her, you know."

"Who's he?" she asks quietly. She berates herself silently for even sounding interested.

"Not the one with the lavabo, the other one. Dark eyes and big hands and he hurt her and he killed the flowers. Winter killed the flowers. Then I sold the bucket and the statue when she died. But she came back. And he did too. They always do, don't they?"

Fifteen other inmates need breakfast. She tears her ears away and braces herself for the people who ramble without any overdoses. She has her sanity, and that's a wonder in itself. Maybe he won't talk tomorrow. In the evening he pretends there is a window to look out of. She'd pity him, but if she starts to pity anyone, she'd slip.

"Yes. They do."

She doesn't know why she said that. Three syllables and she could be just as crazy as he is. But no one ever comes back, at least no one ever comes back to her (she supposes this Pirelli is right). She locks the door behind her, and Tobias turns away. In spite of everything, she wants to know if he is smiling.

It would be the first smile here in weeks.