"Vicar?"

Todd wrinkled his nose. "Too chalky."

Lovett propped her chin on his naked chest, and drew invisible circles with her fingertips.

"Hmmmm, what about the military?"

"Army or navy?" Todd sifted his fingers through her gleaming curls. He had to admit, here in the candlelight, she was more likeable, more attractive and more desirable than she had ever been out in the harsh light of day.

Lovett bit her lip in thought, and then pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "Navy."

"Salty. How about..." he paused mid sentence, grabbing her waist. Lovett yelped as he rolled her onto her back, and pinned her to the bed. "Pie maker?"

"No, we all taste of dust and flour," she giggled as he dipped his head down to her neck, lacing it with kisses and bites. "I should think barber might suit you better."

"Mm," Todd mumbled against her skin. "Hair in one's food is dreadfully unappetizing."

"But-"

"Sh," he interrupted, and bent to kiss her pouting lips. "No more talk."

His fingers began to unlace the remaining ties of the shift that had managed to make it halfway off her body in the last hour. She stared up at the ceiling and smiled to herself.

"Anything you say, Mr. Todd."

--

Had it been four days? Or five?

Eleanor Lovett stared at the crack at the bottom of the heavy wooden door that prevented her escape into the world she knew. The stone floor against her cheek was by now a familiar vexation, but it was no more comfortable than it had been the first day she had arrived. She was sick of this place now, and anxious to get out. Everything from the rays of light that trickled through the barred window, to Sweeney Todd's peaceful, confident features sent ripples of irritation through her. He was watching the dust particles float in the thin, wan winter light with his head cocked.

"What're you looking so smug for?" Lovett demanded, scratching the mortar between the stone blocks that made up the floor.

"Oh, nothing," Todd said airily, resuming his counting of the floating dust particles. In truth, he was thinking about what he was going to do after they made a break. Anthony had insisted he and Johanna would be safely installed in Plymouth by the time his plans were to commence.

Johanna...

If it weren't for that damned boy...but no, Anthony was a friend. A daftly, dull-witted, and annoying friend, but a friend nonetheless. His only friend.

--

"Johanna, he's my friend. He's OUR friend."

"Anthony, I know you care for him, I understand, but a felon in my home-"

"We owe him at least one night's shelter! Why won't you listen?"

Johanna turned onto her side and glared at her husband.

"If you must know, Anthony, it is because I think he is guilty of the crimes he was arrested for!"

Anthony was dumbfounded. He rolled onto his side to face his scowling wife.

"But..but..how can you believe that?" he exclaimed. "How can you possibly?"

"Anthony, Anthony, my darling," she sighed, pressing her face against his. "Don't you remember? When you left the parlour shop, I heard someone, an old woman, calling the beadle. I hid in the trunk."

"You didn't tell me this before," Anthony groused, still befuddled.

"I heard her singing a lullaby, a little lullaby...and then a man's voice, an awful snarl of a voice at that, demanding the reason for her being there. I heard her scream, and then a great clatter and clanking noise, like that of a factory conveyor belt. And then the judge came in, I'm sure of it."

"And then?"

Johanna's golden brows knit together. "And then I heard them speaking. It was muffled, I couldn't tell what they were saying. And then a name, he...the man, he shouted a name, but I only heard the first part. He shouted the name 'Benjamin'. That terrible rattling started again, and quickly stopped."

She paused for a moment and cuddled up to her husband before continuing her narrative.

"When I thought he had gone, I got out of the trunk, but he came back again, and it was Mr. Todd as you had described him to me. He did not recognize me as a woman, not with all that grit on my face, but he became most fearsome, and his eyes were full of rage. He demanded that I explain my presence there, but I was too frightened.

"I all but collapsed into the chair, but the factory whistle had gone again, and it must've put some sense in me, for I made a dash down the stairs. I heard a scream from below, and that's when I found you, Anthony, coming back from Temple Bar."

"Are you sure it was Mr. Todd? Think hard now," Anthony stroked her face with his hand, looking earnestly into her eyes. "And even so, you can't be certain it was he who killed those people. There is no evidence, none, and he says he was framed."

Johanna sighed again. "I don't know, Anthony, I only know that he frightened me dreadfully,"she bit her lip.

"I promise you, my love, he wouldn't harm a single hair on your head. Think of all he did to rescue you from that awful madhouse!" he pointed out.

"Yes, yes, of course, you're right. I'm sorry. I just...I don't know, that night was so awful, everything was mixed up," Johanna said miserably as she pressed her face into his chest.

"I know, my dearest. Go to sleep, now. You're overwrought, and we have a long journey tomorrow."

--

The light filtered in, reminding Toby of the Vermeer he had been privileged enough to spy during a meeting with the literature master. Though it was a very small thing, Master Langley insisted it was genuine. Proudly, he explained that he was holding it for a friend who was planning to sell it to a museum. It depicted a woman, round faced with bright eyes standing at the window sill, while a great white light flooded into the room, softening the darker colours and bringing the brighter ones to the surface.

"Do you like that one, Master Reginald?"

The masters called him that on account of his quick learning and wise tongue. The other boys used it as a jeer. Toby didn't mind. He preferred spending time with the masters anyway. He had never spent long among boys his own age, except during the years when he had lodged at a workhouse. Even then, no one so much as spoke, let alone tried to form social hierarchy. Running away from there had been his greatest triumph, until now. Now his greatest triumph was being able to read, write and do figures.

"Yes sir, very much sir. What is it called?"

"Oh, I don't think it has a name. It's such a little thing, I imagine the old boy did it just for practice. Now then, to business. What did you want to see me for, lad?"

"Well, sir, I finished Burns; I should like to do another poem."

Langley's old wrinkled face cracked into a smile. "Another poem, is it? You're terribly voracious with them: you could teach the class."

"Oh, no, sir," Toby protested, his voice soft as always. "I don't think I want to teach, not boys at any rate. I would very much like to write. For a paper or suchlike."

"Ah, I think your talents are higher than that, but we'll see, eh?" the master got up, his old body creaking. "I think I have just the thing for you. You're a curiosity unto yourself, Tobias. I think you might sympathize."

Toby wanted to fidget with the edge of his navy blue blazer, but resisted. His very first lesson had been Manners and Decorum, and he still had a red mark on his hand from the place where the master's switch had struck him. None of the other teachers had ever punished him. They would correct his grammar, pronunciation or spelling, but never did they raise a hand to strike him. It was common knowledge that none of them liked Master Chieves anyway. Toby had once overhead them commenting that his was a subject with no real merit, and that was why he was so bitter and cruel.

"Sympathize, sir?"

"You might relate," Langley reiterated, lifting a thick leather volume off his shelf. Toby scooted to the edge of his seat, and took the book reverently, reading the name on the side.

"Edgar Allen Poe. Is he good?"

"Of course he's good, boy!" Langley scoffed. "Would I assign you bad authors?"

"To teach me the difference?"

"Cheek! Get on with you," his voice was fierce, but he was smiling.

Toby had thanked him for the book, left the office, and then retreated down the hallway to his room.

Toby was very fond of his room; it was private and comfortable, and had once been a master's quarters. The dormitories had been full when he had arrived, but he didn't mind at all- he had never had his own room before and he didn't like the other boys anyway.

He particularly enjoyed the afternoon light that would dodge around the bare branches of the birch tree and fill his room with a warm dusty glow. His hands stayed over the cover of the book as he beheld this little marvel for long moments. Then he climbed up onto the comfortable old four poster bed, staring at the illuminated red canopy.

He liked the bed, but he would've been happy to sleep on straw. Being away from the dark clouds the hung over London, and away from Mr. Todd, was worth everything.

--

He had treated her like a whore.

Sweeney Todd's contemplation of Mrs. Lovett had stretched back to those lustful, villainous moments, free of innocence or care. He had done things with her that he had no name for, that no English gentleman would dare speak of in polite company. And, bloody tart that she has, she enjoyed every minute of it. If there was anything Todd truly admired about Mrs. Lovett, it was her...creativity.

On the other hand, his time with Lucy had been a short series of innocent couplings. Mere conversation on the matter would bring a delightful blush to her cheeks, and she could speak not at all. Todd watched as Lovett reposed in the stark patch of sunlight, remembering how differently the two had valued sex. Lucy's aim, as she had been taught, was to please her husband, but not too often, as it was unladylike. Eleanor Lovett gave back bruise for bruise, her stubborn little hands scratching track marks across the scars acquired during his exile.

He felt a stab of guilt, and cursed himself for thinking such thoughts. Lovett was a vile devious little witch, and to think such things was a sin, a sin against his wife, and God.

But what are God and Devil to me now? Neither delight me.

Still, it was...pleasing to think of such things. There was no denying that. His time with Lucy had been soft, pure and sweet, but his time with Lovett had been pleasurable, wanton and viciously sensuous.

She is the Devil's wife!

What does that make me, then, I wonder? He asked no one in particular.

A booming knock on the door interrupted Todd's reverie. Lieutenant MacKenna's scowling face appeared through the barred window.

"You have a visitor, Mr. Todd. A journalist." The word was laced with contempt. Todd cocked his head, and took his time getting to his feet.

"What use have I for a journalist, Lieutenant?"

"Haven't a clue, but Sir James let him in."

"Bribed, no doubt," Todd yawned, stalking over to the door. "Where is he, then?"

"In the chapel. I'll take you, and lock you in."

"Fair enough."

Despite the largeness of the room, Todd still felt a wave of claustrophobia as he entered the chapel. He walked among the pews, which were situated behind a set of wrought iron bars. Standing on the other side was a lanky man with a mop of shock yellow hair. Something about his earnest features and youthful vitality sent a shiver of annoyance through Todd.

"Mr. Todd? Oh, gosh, it's an honour to meet you. I mean, er, I'm very glad you could speak with me, I know must be very busy-"

The boy's flat American twang hit his ears and reverberated with total irritation, which had become evident on Todd's face. Possibly the youth noticed, because he sat down on the warden bench immediately, and set to dry washing his hands.

"Gosh, I'm sorry, sir. Can we start again?"

Todd merely arched a brow, and said nothing.

"Alright then. Well, my name is Morgan, Morgan Quinn."

"Ah." Todd turned his back and leant against the bars.

"Well, I, um...I was here in London doing a bit for the Gazette, see, and I was wondering if perhaps...you might..."

Todd turned his head to the side, watching the boy out of the corner of his eye. "If I might what, Mr. Quinn?"

"If you might give me an interview."

Todd looked away again, his interest waning. "I rather think that might hurt my chances in court, Mr. Quinn."

"Oh, no!" Quinn stood up again. "We wouldn't publish until after your trial."

Todd gave a sinister little chuckle, and slowly stood. Quinn immediately sat down again as the other man overshadowed him, his feral blue eyes unfathomable beneath ironically quirked brows. Quinn felt his mouth go dry, and he involuntarily leaned back as Todd wrapped his hands around the bars and brought himself right up against them, lifting himself partially off the ground as he stretched catlike, labour hardened muscles in his arm bulging and straining against his shirt.

"What if they find me guilty, Mr. Quinn?" he drawled. "What if...they decide that this grand little bloodletting we've had...is in fact all my doing?"

"Well...I..." Quinn had began to sweat. He loosened his collar.

"Is that what you want, Mr. Quinn? To make your readers shiver at the idea of reading impressions of a murderer?

"I didn't mean to-"

"Remember this, Mr. Quinn," Todd snapped, suddenly turning from lackadaisical to intent as he stared unblinkingly through the bars. "Evil is banal. It's common, it's filthy, and it takes true craft to make it exquisite. Whether or not I killed Judge Turpin or Beadle Bamford is irrelevant. Investigate their origins and you will discover the extent of their corruption. They were evil. I am merely a force."

"Corruption, did you say?" Quinn was fumbling for his pencil and notebook.

"A scandal to shake the very roots of Parliament, I should think."

"Is that all?"

Todd ignored the question, turned his back, and at length made his way through the pews back to the chapel door. Before raising a hand to knock, he turned to face the young journalist.

"If I think of anything else, I shall tell you."