V. July 4, 1848. London, England. Nearing 2 pm.

It's been two weeks. Two bloody weeks since she did the morning patrol and found two cells empty. The guards swore they saw no one leave and even Meeker could not figure out how they did it. It was his head on the block, though, considering it was a part of his end of the wing. He left last Tuesday, and now the entire floor is hers until they find a replacement.

You fancy him, don't you?

It was him. It was Jack who got out, Jack and the woman he referred to as "Knitty." They could not have left out the front door, for that door is bolted shut at night. The police have been looking for them, and both the cells have been searched for any indication of where they went. What they found in the woman's cell was insignificant.

Jack's cell, however, was an entirely different matter.

It was an old batch of lines under the sink written in some extremely old ink. To the ignorant eye, the lines meant nothing, but when she shifted a few of the floor stones just so, she discovered to a dilapidated stairwell and an underground passage (eighteen cells still have stone floors. If only…). The lines mapped out the hallways underground. Rook followed the passage, and he reported that it led him to a spot a few meters from the port.

But Jack and Knitty were gone by then.

And they found a word, a name. Toby. She remembers Jack's tortured voice the day before he escaped. She remembers how he almost slapped her once when she tried to put him in a straightjacket. And she remembers his first night and the first words he said to Knitty:

"Ragg. It was my name, and I gave it to her. She died with it. They will, too."

Oh Jesus.

She is relieved and mortified to find police at the door today. They wipe their boots off and complain idly of the summer heat. They express the wish that they had a little gin. She wishes they would just get down to business.

"Ma'am, we found the woman who escaped, or a woman who looks like her," says the one with a rather bushy moustache.

"Where is she? Can you return her to us?"

"We're afraid we found her body."

She pauses for a moment (Any more bonbons Mrs. Lovett?)

Moustache-man clears his throat. "We'll need you or one of your colleagues to identify it."

"I can send Rook first thing tomorrow morning. Is that all?"

"No. We've been meaning to speak to you regarding Tobias Ragg. We have reason to believe he has invaluable information regarding the murders on Fleet Street almost a year ago. We figured we would give him some time here to recover from the shock, but we believe it is time to get to the bottom of the matter."

"Tobias Ragg has not spoken any intelligible words since the escapes. I am inclined to believe he needs more time."

"We'll give you another month to get Tobias in a condition to attend an interrogation."

She opens her mouth to speak, but they are bidding her good day (and whispering something about a whorehouse down the street). It's not nearly enough time to get Tobias in any position to talk to the police. She'll need to spend time with him and the chilling grey eyes and the pleading voice and the stories of Mrs. Lovett and her apron…

She approaches his cell, and she is almost afraid to enter. He's been crying again, and she realizes that there are still tear stains on her pants. When she comes in, he doesn't even notice. She removes his gag, and he lets out a shaky breath. They begin.

"Tobias?" she whispers.

"He hurt her."

"She's dead."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"When I came out, the room still smelled like her."

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Yes. And I knew it was him, I did."

"The barber? He's dead, too."

"I know. You don't know, but I know."

"Can you tell them?"

"Who?"

"The police. They want to… ask questions. About what you saw."

"They'll hurt me."

"No, they won't. They just want to know the truth."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do."

"Everything? I could tell them, from the beginning. It started the night we buried mother, and it ends here. With you. And there's Pirelli in the caravan and there's the barber who has his… eyebrows. Father's eyebrows. And there's Mrs. Lovett who walks quickly but makes her pies slowly and grinds meat smoothly. And she died because she called everybody 'love' and knew something that no one else knew. And she dies again in my head, over and over and over again. And I told her that she would be all right, that the entire world could bleed open and the lavabo would be bright red and she would be alive because I loved her so much. And it would be enough. I was wrong, and she's really dead. She was dead the first time, when she was in bed and she wouldn't wake up, and that… was mother. Father changed his name to Jack and told us to be good. He's gone, and it's my fault, and you're here, and it's over. And you are here. Who are you?"

She hasn't moved or breathed since he started talking. It is all starting to make sense, his parents and the barber and Mrs. Lovett. And now she has to answer the question because she can't solve everything by just gagging him and leaving him with Mrs. Lovett's dying screams. She doesn't have the heart.

But she can't just answer the question. Nothing is ever that simple.

"Please. Tell me who you are."

(Mrs. Lovett says that I can have anything I want and all I have to say is please)

"Toby. I'm not your mother, and I'm not Mrs. Lovett."

"Please?"

"It's not important. I have to check on the other inmates. Good night."

"I can see the moon from her window."

She kneels down and kisses his forehead. It's the first time she's touched someone she wasn't feeding, bathing, or restraining. She takes in the taste of the sweat mingled with dirt and maybe blood. And something that is distinctly Toby, and she is suddenly aware that Mrs. Lovett kissed this forehead.

She wishes she knew the Toby Mrs. Lovett knew.