IV. June 19, 1848. London, England. 8:13 am.

"You're late."

John Rook, a fellow caretaker, slops into the asylum drenched in rainwater. It drips a bit on her shirt, and she wipes it off, disgusted at his casual attire and behavior. He hangs up a worn coat and turns to her, addresses her in an almost friendly manner:

"It's really disgusting out there. It's rained for almost a fortnight. Well, only in London. How is everybody? What did I miss?"

"You're late, and you weren't even here yesterday. Where were you?"

She turns to Rook with the same stern eyes she gives naughty inmates. He sighs and wipes the rainwater off of his thinning hair. He only is really there to help with the proceedings; she and two other men really run the asylum. She's heard somewhere that he is splitting this job with work at a bar.

"I don't work on Sundays," he reminds her, as if she didn't already know. He goes to church on Sundays, something she gave up ages ago.

"Yesterday was Friday."

"Was it? Oh, sorry, I've been a bit preoccupied. You see, my wife is going to have a baby."

"Oh, congratulations. Start getting to work on time," she deadpans.

He shrugs noncommittally. He spent all of last year badgering her to just find someone already and pointing out rather rudely that she wasn't getting any younger. She avoids him now because she has an obligation to fulfill. It is something he does not understand.

"So, did I miss anything?"

"Number 103, Emmeline Mooney, has been throwing herself against the walls ever since I put her solitary…"

"Why did you put her is solitary?"

"She started screaming profanities in the middle of the night. She looked to attack the boy in the neighboring cell. Have you ever heard the name Nellie Lovett?"

"Yes. She used to own a pie shop on Fleet Street. She went missing the day of the murders. Why?"

"That's who she was cursing off."

"Oh, well, I don't know much about pie shop owners. I'll take the upper wing come breakfast time."

"Cheers."

She starts the morning patrol, and the inmates are just beginning to wake up. In fifteen minutes, the wake-up bell will ring, but most of the inmates spent the night screaming or moaning or muttering incoherently. A good night, overall.

"Morning, Ma'am."

She thinks for a moment that it is Tobias with his little-boy voice and needy eyes. He has taken to saying hello to her whenever he can before reverting back into a state of random jerky motions and tortured silences. She turns to wish him good morning back (she would smile too, and that's the strange thing), but it's the man a few rooms over. Knife in the stomach, slashed the groin, too. Good times.

"I was betting Knitty over here five quid that you wouldn't answer me back. Well, I would have anyway, but she doesn't seem to say much. We've never been properly introduced, have we?" he sneers.

"Rook! Gag over here please!"

"Oh, he can't hear you. He's all the way upstairs."

"Meeker! Gag over here please!"

"Oh, I think he's in solitary, and he's having his own struggles. But you know that already. You fancy him, don't you?"

"That is preposterous." She takes out her notepad and talks as she writes. "No breakfast for #95."

"Oh, we're all civilized here. We can use names, can't we? I'm Jack. And you are?"

He is snarling at her through the bars. He's insane, just insane, and if she keeps telling herself that maybe he'll shut up like the others. It is her job, no, her responsibility to make sure these people know their place.

"Well then Jack, if cannot handle yourself properly around others then perhaps I should move you to solitary. Then when the demons come at night, there will be no one to hear you scream."

She continues her walk down the hallway and is rather proud of herself. But Jack is not quite defeated. He sticks out his arm out of his cell in a vulgar gesture and yells out:

"YOU CAN'T SAY THAT TO ME! YOU… YOU BITCH! YOU WON'T KEEP ME HERE FORVER!"

Meeker has heard this, and he is already on Jack with a gag and a straightjacket. She makes a note to transfer him to solitary tomorrow morning, so he can have to day to cool off and apologize if he wants to.

Meeker turns to her. "I know you're quite busy, but there a cell a few meters down that is empty."

"What?"

She doesn't have to look far. Tobias has abandoned his cell and is lying in "Knitty's" lap. "Knitty" keeps at her task and hums softly while she works.

"Mrs. Lovett, I've come home. Oh, it's so wonderful to see you again. Did you get the necklace? No? They were selling it for too much, weren't they? Of course they were. Any more bonbons, Mrs. Lovett? I've been such a good boy. She's never told me that, but I can tell because she almost smiled once. But I still hear your voice. Toby, love. I'll work in the bake house, just like you says to me. And then…"

"Tobias! Tobias, how did you…"

She gets the right key and helps him out of the woman's lap. The woman continues knitting as if nothing has happened.

"Tobias? Toby?"

It's Jack's voice, and she struggles not to turn her head. Not his booming bellow, but a pleading rasp, a whisper. He's remembering something, maybe. He won't do well in solitary; he'll be screaming every night.

"Sorry, ma'am, but she's here. Mrs. Lovett's here! And I was so hoping…" Tobias rasps excitedly.

"That's not Mrs. Lovett."

"What?"

"That's not Nellie Lovett. That woman has been in the asylum for almost three years. Nellie Lovett is dead."

"No."

"Yes."

"NO!"

"Yes. She's dead, and you saw her die."

She's speculating, but the words hit home with him in a way she never expected. Tobias falls to his knees, latches onto her side and begins to sob. Everyone stares at them through the bars, and she tries to hiss at him to stop. He's too close, much too close. He cries harder, grabbing her pants letting the tears run all the way down to her shoes. This has to stop. She thinks maybe…if she can...maybe he would...

"It's all right, Toby, love. Stop crying."

And he listens.