1. Deceit and Lies

March, 1848

Oh God, please, Eleanor Lovett thought desperately as she felt her back hit the cold stone wall of the bakehouse. Her eyes were comically wide. Her bosom heaved with her shallow breaths.

Sweeney Todd was still frozen in his kneeling position on the floor, but he had raised his head very slowly, a predator waiting to strike. The hatred in his current glare was breathtaking. And then there was Lucy, strewn like a ragdoll across his lap despite how he was trying to cradle her gently, dirty yellow hair plastered to her filthy face in unkempt masses. A murderous grin ripped her throat in two.

The bakehouse oven's gentle roar was the only thing which broke the terrible silence in the room; the occupants remained deadly still, as though they were carved from stone. Nellie's heartbeat thumped painfully in her head above the rush of her blood. She could feel her limbs shaking with an undisguised fear. Her throat was unnaturally dry.

Her time had run out. It was over.

Now Sweeney Todd was getting to his feet, laying his wife reverently on the gore-soaked floor, eyes carefully avoiding her bloody throat. A soft growling was rumbling from his chest. Nellie could only stare, exquisitely enraptured even in the embrace of terror. Sweeney Todd would always be her one weakness.

He advanced on her slowly, arms outstretched in front of him, razor glinting in the firelight. His teeth were bared – in a grin or an animalistic grimace, Nellie couldn't say. She pressed herself more firmly against the wall, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead despite the heat of the room. Her body felt sticky beneath her layers of clothes.

"Come here, my love," Todd crooned at her, closing the space between them, and Nellie realised with a thrill that could have been terror (should have been terror) or anticipation of their close proximity that there was nowhere else to run.

Should she try to distract him? Succumb to him?

His hand closed painfully around her waist in a vice-like grip, and she winced as his fingers bit excruciatingly into her side. And then the world ceased to exist as the musk of death and blood clamoured into her nostrils, bringing on a wave of dizziness as it mixed with the cologne and sweat she could smell underlying it all. Her own hands slid to his arms, drunk in his scent, unable to support herself.

"That's my Lucy down there," he muttered against her ear, and his hot breath sent warm shivers ricocheting down her spine, his voice low and growling, like a cat's purr. "That's my wife."

"I know, Mr. T, an' I'm so sorry about that," Mrs. Lovett gasped as she felt his bloody hands sliding up her arms. "But she wasn't in 'er own mind, the arsenic scrambled 'er brains, she's better off now…"

"I know you didn't mean for it to happen," he said feverishly, gnashing his teeth over the words. "You didn't want me to find out this way."

"Never, Mr. T," Nellie said, his close proximity making her head spin. His words were not registering. He was so close that his hot breath was hitting her face. The baker's eyes half-lidded.

And then he was yanking her forwards, sweeping her into a mad dance around the bakehouse, giving the mangled bodies a wide birth. Nellie was shivering uncontrollably in his arms, trying not to let her thoughts run away with her –

He sees things my way he knows his wife would never be the same –

He wants me now oh yes he does –

How can it have taken him so long to see how right we are for each other –

The feel of his warm, calloused skin against hers was heavenly. Their hands fit snugly, two pieces of a jigsaw finally joined together to create a masterpiece –

Their voices harmonised as they span, and everything else paled into insignificance for Eleanor Lovett: it did not matter that she felt sick from the gore; it did not matter that he had found out the truth about his perfect Lucy; it did not matter that Sweeney Todd was covered in the blood of demons because –

Because he loves me, Nellie thought giddily as she smiled up at him, watching him smile back, he loves me –

Spinning faster and faster around the room, gripping each other tightly, steps never faltering, perfectly in sync, perfectly in tune, as they had been for the last year of their lives when performing their deadly macabre ballroom dance –

– An' we're gonna move to the sea like I've always wanted, we're gonna forget the past, learn forgiveness an' try to forget, just like Mr. T is suggestin' –

And then her beloved's eyes were not filled with love, she realised with a jolt as he looked upon her, but filled with hate, as though someone had suddenly poured arsenic (how ironic!) into them; but they had been like that all along; Nellie had mistaken the fury for love and now she was dancing to her death –

– The fire was coming closer –

– No, God, please not now I'm not ready to die I'm sorry Mr. T please not now –

– Closer –

– I 'ave to think o' somethin' anythin' need to get out o' this –

– Closer –

– Please let me think o' somethin' please –

– Closer –

– But it was futile to resist because Eleanor Lovett's end was to be now, the most terrible and ironic fate of all, death by the man she loved's hand; death by the fire she kept burning, and she had nothing left, his grip on her was loosening, the roar of the greedy flames deafening her and cooking her back like a human roast and this would be the last thing she would ever know, Sweeney Todd's murderous face and the acrid stench of drying blood, and that was when inspiration – foolish, foolish inspiration, another death wish, struck her –

"Wait!"

Her scream echoed around the bakehouse, startling him and deterring him from his quest for a split-second – the split-second that Nellie needed to wrench herself free from the barber's death grip, ducking beneath his arm before he'd registered what had occurred, darting towards the bakehouse door, where safety awaited her –

But Sweeney Todd was quick too, especially without a huge dress weighing him down, and he'd caught up to her within seconds, grabbing her roughly around the waist and yanking her callously back towards him.

"You're not going anywhere, you little whore," he snarled at her, digging his fingers into her sides, and she yelped in pain. He began to drag her back towards the bakehouse oven, Nellie whimpering and kicking out as he did so.

"Please, Mr. T," she cried, struggling against his strong hold, "you 'ave to listen to me, I've got somethin' to tell ya –"

"Does it involve another story of why you kept my wife a secret from me?" he hissed at her venomously. "Because I don't want to listen to you spouting more lies. You're just a selfish whore, and my Lucy is dead because of you!"

"No, it ain't got nothin' to do wi' that, though I really am sorry 'bout it, Mr. T, wi' all me 'eart –" Sorry you had to find out at all "– no, this 'as somethin' to do wi' us –"

"Then I don't want to hear it," he growled, "I want to forget that I ever came back to find you here because everything that's happened since is your fault, and now I'm going to punish you for it."

"You can punish me all ya want," she choked, as his hands went to her throat, pressing against her windpipe, crushing her voice box, and he slammed her back against the bakehouse oven door to silence her. Her skin began blistering at once, and she cried out in agony as the pungent smell of baking flesh clamoured into her nostrils. The pressure on her throat increased, and she struggled desperately, her fingernails sinking into his skin as she tried to pull his hands away.

"You can punish me all ya want," she tried again, her voice only just above a whisper, tears coursing down her face from the pain of her searing back, "but could you punish your own child for somethin' it ain't done?"

For a terrifying moment she thought he wasn't going to stop – was going to strangle her anyway – but after a heart-stopping moment his hands loosened, though he kept her firmly pushed against the oven door. Now that she had spoken the words, she felt a heavy burden rise from the pit of her stomach. She felt like she was getting an ounce of control back into her life, just with that one spoken sentence.

Lying to him was just so easy.

Todd was staring at her angrily, his eyes boring into hers. His fingers mauled her sides. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he roared dangerously, and she whimpered a little as her back erupted in a fresh wave of burning agony. Surely her skin was melting by now…

"My child?" he barked at her.

"Yes," she managed, her voice hoarse due to the strain he'd applied to her windpipe, "your child, Mr. Todd."

"My Johanna will not be affected in the slightest by your death," he sneered at her. "She need never know you even existed." His hands began to compress again, worryingly forceful.

"Not Johanna," she gasped, "your other child."

"I do not have another child," he said.

"Yes, you 'ave," she wheezed, and her left hand slipped to cradle her flat stomach.

Sweeney Todd froze. His hand slipped uselessly from her throat, allowing her to take huge, panting breaths. Now it was his turn to fight for oxygen, the air in the bakehouse not enough to fill his lungs. There was no truth in this, couldn't be; he had never betrayed his Lucy with the she-devil baker, never ever –

"You liar," he snarled at her, tugging painfully on her frazzled locks; she stiffened.

"I'm not lyin'," she shot back at him. "It was only a couple of weeks ago, you was drunk outta your mind…but not too drunk to not know what you wanted. An' I wasn't gonna turn you down."

"So you took advantage of me?" he hissed, eyes flaring with hatred, "you dared touch me when I was not in the right frame of mind; you dared seduce me?"

Nellie's heart began to speed up in her chest, and she wondered fleetingly if she was doing the right thing by spinning these futile tales. "I didn't seduce ya at all!" she croaked as she massaged her windpipe. "You was the one that started it all, you was goin' crazy tryin' to get me dress undone –"

"Enough!" he yelled at her, driving his fist into the metal door by her head in his rage. He did not want to be hearing this, couldn't be hearing this, not the ultimate betrayal of his beautiful, innocent Lucy, he wouldn't accept it –

Yet, somehow, there must be some truth in it, he recalled with horror, because now he was casting his mind back he could remember the evening that Lovett spoke of; of him drinking himself almost senseless in the pie shop; of watching Lovett's every movement from the corner of his eye, of idly entertaining the notion of taking it further, releasing his pent-up frustrations on her able body –

The exasperating thing was, he couldn't remember anything that had transpired afterwards. He could vaguely recall pushing open her bedroom door, but surely –

"No!" he growled again. "I did not get you with child!"

She glared back at him. "So I did it meself, is that what you're suggestin'?"

"Or someone else did," he snarled at her. "I'm not stupid. I've lived with you for more than a year, I've seen that you weren't short of male requests."

"An' if you paid attention to me like you do to them razors o' yours, you'd've seen that I never once accepted any offers from them! I ain't no whore, Mr. T! This baby is yourn and no one else's!"

He was shaking visibly with the effort of not striking her. "I do not wish to have anything to do with it."

"So you're prepared to abandon it? You missed Johanna grow up. You're really willin' to miss out on your other child's life?"

Those words cut him like his razor, slicing trough his skin and making him weep rubies. Could he? After spending every waking minute of the past sixteen years imagining his family, could he turn his back on his second child, never set eyes on it? Wouldn't he torture himself thinking about it every day?

"Sweeney Todd cannot love," he whispered in a strangled voice at last, desperate to cling onto the last essence of himself, refusing to be manipulated. Lucy lay behind them, forgotten for the moment.

"You love Johanna," she said softly. "If you can still find it within yourself to love your daughter then why can't you bring yourself to love your other child in the future?"

He said nothing.

"Is it because I'm not…" she faltered over the last word, but he knew the name of his wife had been on her tongue. "I'm not askin' ya to love me," her heart broke as she uttered that sentence, "but I am askin' ya to spare your own child's life. 'Ave mercy, Mr. T, if it is only for your child's sake."

The silence stretched on after Nellie had finished talking, but she knew she had to wait. If she tried to push him too hard he would snap, and she'd be no better off. And, as she dared to dream of her survival, she saw the two of them holding a little baby, Mr. T's face peaceful and content as he gazed down upon his child, his spare arm wrapped around her, while the sea sang in the background. It did not matter that he did not love her now; he would. If she survived, he would. She'd make sure of it.

After what seemed like a lifetime but in reality could be no more than a few minutes, Sweeney's grip loosened on her completely and he stepped away, turning his back on her. Nellie didn't move as she watched him cross the bakehouse, heart hammering in her chest. She half-expected him to whirl back around with a sadistic grin, slashing the razor through the air, saying, "did you honestly think I'd let you go, pet?" almost sadly as though he was disappointed in her silly notions –

But he just sank to his knees in front of his dead wife and began crooning her name softly as he cradled her in his arms, and there was a real heartbreak to his voice as he repeated that one word over and over again, as though speaking it enough would bring her back to him: "Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy…"

"Mr T?" Nellie ventured, unsure if she was glad he'd forgotten her or not.

He stiffened at the sound of his name, but did not look up. "Leave me."

Nellie stayed put. "Come on, dear, let's go up –"

"I said," he snarled, raising his bloody face to glare at her, "leave me. I don't want you here. I suggest you listen to me if you value the life of your child." His eyes were cold as chips of ice as he spoke.

The baker contemplated retorting that it was his child too, but decided against it. At the current time it was probably more than her life was worth. So instead she backed towards the door, never taking her eyes from his still form as he resumed the cradling of his mad wife.

The last she saw of him as the door swung shut was the hellish glow of the bakehouse furnace spilling over his features and lighting the blood which clothed his face. He was sweeping the blond haired angel's hair away from her less-than-delicate features while he sang to her.

Then the door snapped shut, leaving Eleanor Lovett with only the darkness and an imaginary child for company.

A/N: I recall saying the updates for this would be faster, but I didn't foresee the massive pile of work I've had to struggle through in recent weeks. Still, I'm hoping to be able to write more of this in my spare time so it (hopefully) shouldn't be too long until the next chapter.

I hope people are still liking this. :)