After delivering Sweeney's request to Toby and seeing to it that he leaves Fleet Street, Nellie stitches herself together enough to march up the steps to his barbershop and demand to know what he is doing. She does not bother to wear a seductive countenance, or to delude him that he is in control in this household, as she usually does; her stitches are yanked together only tight enough for her to hold her scraps together, not to mask her true emotions. There is no point in continuing to try and delude him anyway: he's seen all there is to see of her. He knows her too well now, damn him – damn him for imprinting her spirit to his own, for learning more about her than anyone else ever has . . .
Damn her for allowing it to happen.
She does hold her face in an inflexible pose of mettle, a silent threat not to mention what transpired between them prior to Anthony's arrival in her pie shop. To her relief (for there is, after all, no longer any real threat behind the look), he doesn't mention it, and merely recites to her his plan: his daughter arriving tonight, his letter to Turpin telling him of this fact, his plot to lure the judge into his barber chair at last by telling him of Johanna's arrival. . . .
His voice emits from his mouth in a drone, but he can't extinguish the sparkle in his black gaze. His spark is infectious: it catches hold of her and worms right through her defenseless seams, infusing her blood, searing her dead heart like a hot poker.
Her mind swims as red spots erupt before her eyes – as plentiful and glorious as firecrackers, or constellations in the dark sky, or the blood that bleeds through his shirts and dots his bare skin every night – she feels as though she will crumple to the floor and float into the clouds all at once, head throbbing, heart throbbing, everything throbbing and spinning and beautiful –
The judge. Here. Tonight.
"Good things come to those who can wait," whispers Sweeney in conclusion.
She tries to keep her face rigid. She isn't sure if she is successful.
For those first few moments of living with the knowledge that the judge is coming, Nellie is rendered incapable of anything. Once the knowledge settles in, becomes a part of her, she finds it no difficulty at all to descend the staircase and return to her baking, and even decides some hours later to break all social regularities and open shop on a Sunday evening. No customers turn up their noses at her laboring away on the day of supposed rest; indeed, it is one of the busiest nights she's ever had.
She chatters and sways and serves her way through the night, unconscious as ever of the jabber leaving her mouth, but no longer hoisting smiles upon her face: tonight, the smiles appear naturally.
So this is what it feels like to be happy.
She doesn't chastise herself for her joy, as she typically does; certainly, she knows she is still not entitled to joy, not while Lucy lives on unavenged – but revenge as inevitable as this . . . the mere thought of victory on her tongue . . . it tastes so sweet, so pure, that it is the first time the entire year that she almost does not mind when she feels Sweeney's eyes upon her from above, studying her through his window as always, and has to flash him a smile. The first time she almost does not mind that one smile is not enough for him and that she has to do this at least a dozen instances more throughout the evening – despite the fact that she barely has a moment to breathe, much less look up for a smile.
It is the first time the entire year that she almost does not mind admitting her heart still beats.
She watches all possible entrance points to 186 Fleet Street like a vulture, giddily ravenous for her forthcoming meal. Her head spins a mite more slow with each passing minute that he does not arrive; her smiles appear on her face a little less often with every hour that remains unattended by her repast.
Where is he? Is he not coming after all? Does his distrust of me outweigh his lust for Johanna? Did the letter not get delivered? Perhaps Toby gave it to the wrong person – or perhaps he opened it, figured out what's been going on with Sweeney and me's businesses, and is currently at the police station? Or what if . . .?
Crunch, crunch, crack, her boots grouse as they march over the gravel outside
Scuff, scuff, the carol of shoes as they ease across the wood panes of the pie shop.
Snnnnick thud-thud, the beat of her feet slipping in a small puddle of blood and stumbling to catch the rest of her body.
Thud, thud, thud, the rumbling song of heels striking stone stairs as she climbs back up the steps ascending from the bakehouse, a freshly-heated tray of pies in hand.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, scrape . . . crunch, whack, scuff . . . scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff . . . thud, thud, thud.
Then the shop is closed and the meat for tomorrow's pies is flayed, and Turpin is still nowhere in sight, still Sweeney has not alerted her of the judge's presence as he promised he would . . . but she must keep the song going, must not stop . . .
Her feet whirl blindly about her home: striding to windows to peer into the night, bounding to the opposite side of the room, pressing into the carpet to lower her body into a chair, stretching out but only to spring back up and pace again . . .
Clack, clack, clack.
Finally, she finds herself reposing in the parlor, a pair of knitting needles in hand.
Clack, clack.
When she becomes aware enough of her body to comprehend this, the needles have already started banging together, weaving what looks to be a scarf. She's not knitted in years, but it seems to be just what she needs tonight for her melody to continue.
Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.
Her lips curl into a smirk. The wool is a ruby red.
You're just the picture of domesticity, eh?
Clack, clack, clack.
Shoes chafing against the carpet draw her attention upward, hand still furiously attending to their task.
"Toby," she exclaims as the lad comes wandering into the parlor. "Where you been all evening, love? We had quite the rush at dinner. Surely whatever Mr. T sent you out to do couldn't've taken this long."
"He sent me – out on an errand – yes," stammers Toby, shuffling his feet against the carpet, "and – and while I was out – "
"Ah, it's alright, love," says Nellie with a wink. "You don't have to share with me all the details of your life. We all need a bit of privacy, eh? Anyway," she continues without waiting for a reply, her knitting needles jabbering away, "look what I've got here. Isn't it a beauty? And guess who it's for?"
"Aw – coo, mum," says Toby, his mouth smiling but his feet still shuffling, "for me?"
She throws him another wink. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Toby comes to sit next to her on the settee. Her needles twaddle together in vicious swipes as her fingers fly through the air.
Clack, clack.
"Mrs. Lovett? Could I – say something?"
"Yes, darling?"
Whatever he desires to say, his words trip too much to make his message clear. She still is looking down at her knitting and not at him, but she can practically hear the way his lips are shuffling and shaking as his feet did seconds ago, stretching around syllables and sounds as though learning them for the first time:
"I – see – while I was out – "
"Didn't we just talk about this?" says Nellie, grinning down at her needles. Clack, clack, clack, clack. "I was only teasing you earlier when I demanded to know where you'd been, love." Clack. "You're certainly not shackled to this place." Clack, clack. "And so long as you continue to help me out most nights rather than gallivanting off on some adventure, I see no problem with you taking your leave every now and then – "
"Mrs. Lovett," says Toby, and his feet no longer shuffle but neither does his voice, "please let me talk."
Her hands slacken their needles; her mouth slackens its grin. She turns her head to the side and looks at him, her song forgotten. "What's wrong, Toby?"
He tailors his face into a smile. Her heart pangs. It is one thing for her to don her facades; it is entirely another for him to attempt the same. It is a poor attempt at a façade, to be sure – even the simplest of beings would see the quiver of his lips, the freckles standing in high relief against his too pale skin, the hands frozen and clawed around his knees – but it is an attempt nonetheless. He is not supposed to know what a façade is, much less be attempting his own. Not an innocent, not her boy. Not one she was supposed to save.
You've failed again, Lovett.
"While I was out," says Toby, "I decided to stop by the workhouse, just for a look. And I realized – but for you, I'd be there now."
"Mmmm."
The smile relaxes into his face. Not even fourteen years old and he's already learning to sew himself together, giving no one a chance to look beneath the swaths of masquerading fabric and thread. "Seems like the good Lord sent you to me."
"Ah, love," she says, flashing him a smile, "I feel quite the same."
The Lord does not care enough to send her anything, she's always had to make her own way in this world, and He certainly wouldn't deliver anything good to her even if He did find her worthy of His attention – but, excepting that, she does feel quite the same.
"Listen to me, please," says Toby in earnest. "Y'know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Say – if there were a monster, or an ogre – or anything bad-like what was after you – why, I'd rip it apart with my bare fists, I would!"
"What a sweet child it is," says Nellie, her eyes flitting over Toby's head to pass through the doorway and to the windows in her pie shop: still no sign of that bastard . . . but he will come, he has to come, he shall, he must . . .
Toby looks away from her face for the first time, pushing his kneecaps together with his hands. "Or even if it was just a man . . ."
Her gaze snaps back to Toby. "A man, dear?" she repeats, her voice a good deal shriller than she means it to be.
"A man – what was bad – " his voice is shuffling again, but its earnest quality is growing, confidence swelling, loyalty intensifying, and when his eyes find hers, they deplete the room of all air " – and what might be luring you all unbeknownst into his evil deeds, like . . ."
She sculpts her face into solemn but mild interest, eyebrows slightly raised and mouth softly parted. Her hands, not as adept at masking as her face, begin to knit again.
Clack clack clack clack clack.
"What's this?" Nellie asks him. "What're you talking about?"
Toby inhales, his eyes not wavering from hers. "Nothing's gonna harm you – not while I'm around . . ."
He pledges aloud the devotion written as clear as scriptures upon his face – as clear as scriptures, and as false.
Because it is too late. Because demons already have harmed her. Because they continue to harm her. Because she harms herself.
He continues speaking, the words pulsing forward faster and clearer as they go on, words she does not want to hear, especially as his meaning becomes plainer with each utterance – his meaning and his understanding . . . oh, he misunderstands much, to be sure – as if Sweeney could ever have the wit or the will to lead her about as she does him, to manipulate her motions to his own desires . . .
Nonetheless, Toby understands too much – and if unstopped, he'll run to the police. If unstopped, he'll have Sweeney arrested.
If unstopped, she'll never reach Turpin.
The boy or the judge?
The question is obvious. So is the answer – and she hates herself for it being obvious, hates that there is no struggle for the answer, hates that even though the choice pains her there is no hesitation to making the choice –
But it is obvious. And they both have to live with the consequences.
"Shhh, shhh, hush now, Toby," she whispers as she stuffs Pirelli's coin purse back into her bust and draws Toby against her. She feels their limbs trembling against one another but she can't tell from whose body the trembles originate. "Here – " she pulls them both onto the settee " – you just sit nice and quiet for a bit, next to me – that's right . . ."
She holds his head against her chest, her other arm secure around his back, and rocks him against her like an overgrown infant. Normally, he objects when she tries to coddle him. Tonight, he is silent. Shaking.
The boy couldn't have been saved anyway. The boy is already broken. There is no going back. The judge, on the other hand . . . the judge can still die.
She repeatedly presents herself with this logic as she sits there, arms wrapped around Toby, rocking him against her chest. Logic is steady and constant, ever dependable, ever comforting, ever present. Like her metronome, beating through the long days and nights.
"How could you think such a thing of Mr. Todd?" she murmurs into his hair. "He's been so good to us. . . . Nothing's gonna harm you – not while I'm around . . ."
Her throat and her eyes feel as though they are on fire. It's an unfamiliar feeling. Reasoning that when something is on fire one must douse it with water, she tries to moisten the flames, swishing saliva down her throat and widening her eyes to make them water.
". . . nothing's gonna harm you, darling – not while I'm around . . ."
The burning only increases. Then she realizes that the burn is from she being close to tears. Then she remembers that water enhances burns, not quenches.
"Demons'll charm you with a smile, for a while," he replies, his voice quivering but never breaking, his arms tightening around her waist, "but in time – nothing can harm you . . . not while I'm around . . ."
She sits there, arms wrapped around Toby, rocking him against her chest, and silently cries for the first time in sixteen years.
xxx
"Tooooby! Where aaaaare you, love?"
"Toby?" he barks behind her. "Toby!"
"Nothing's gonna harm you," she croons into the darkness sticky with human feces and sewage water and summer sweat, "not while I'm around . . . nothing's gonna harm you – darling – not while I'm around . . ."
Her voice trills and lilts over the deceased promises. She thinks her ears might bleed.
"Toby?" Sweeney calls, arm poised behind his back, hand closed in a fist. The blade pulses in his palm like as it did last time he was about to kill Turpin, thrumming in giddy anticipation of what is to come. And it will come this time – the judge is coming soon and nothing will stop him this time from murdering that bastard – and yet Sweeney is not there to greet him.
Stupid boy.
He grits his teeth. He's never begrudged Toby's residence in their home before. Oh, certainly he's felt a lick of jealousy when he sees Nellie ruffling the boy's hair with a hand or bruising the boy's forehead with a kiss, her eyes sparkling with genuine affection they never hold in the barber's presence – but it is completely irrational to envy her filial warmth for a thirteen-year-old whelp. Besides, simultaneous with the lick of jealousy – and larger – is one of loving remembrance and empathy: he recollects well how Nellie once desired to be a mother, when she still had desires other than revenge; he remembers well how Lucy's eyes sparkled with that same ethereal light when she held baby Johanna, that light that he sees now in Nellie's black gaze instead.
No . . . he can never begrudge the fact that Nellie can still care about someone, even if that someone isn't him.
Tonight, however, he does begrudge the boy. If Tobias Ragg had never invaded their home – and he refuses to think of it as Toby's home as well, refuses to acknowledge that they've both dwelled here a year now and thus should be entitled the same privilege of calling 186 Fleet Street a home – he would not be in the sewers right now. He would be upstairs in his shop, waiting for the judge, preparing for his demise and for her happiness . . .
"Demons'll charm you with a smile," sings Nellie, stepping with care over a puddle to avoid falling flat on her face, "for a while, but in time . . ."
Time. They do not have time. The judge will be here soon. She must dispose of Toby as quickly as possible before he runs to the police and destroys her last chance at vengeance.
Her throat still burns – no longer with fire, but with acid – not hot and flaming, but sour and bubbling, retching, knocking upward at the roof of her mouth –
No. You made your decision, Lovett. You made it sixteen years ago. No turning back now.
"Perhaps you should go upstairs?" Sweeney suggests in a murmur.
She whirls on her heel so quickly that she loses her balance upon the slimy stones. She only manages to avoid falling into the rushing sludge by his hands seizing her shoulders and jerking her upright.
"Upstairs?" she hisses, wrenching herself free from his grip, and neither of them mentions that she did not say thank you. "Absolutely not – you mad? Whaddya think we're doing down here in the sewers – enjoying the view? We've got to find Toby before he runs to the law."
"Yes," Sweeney agrees, not ruffled in the slightest by her agitation. "I'll stay behind and find him while you wait for the judge in my shop – since you are to be the one to do the deed, it only makes sense that you go instead of me – "
"If Turpin sees me first, he'll turn right around," says Nellie flatly. "He doesn't trust me any longer. He's got to see you first – you've got a far better chance of re-earning his trust than I do." Her lips purse. "You should go upstairs. I'll stay down here and – and finish this. Just stall the judge long enough for me to make it up there."
"But – " his eyes flail " – what about – you don't – are you sure you want to – sure you can – "
"What?" she snaps, impatient.
As mute as he was when he first returned to London, Sweeney removes his arm from behind his back and unfurls his fingers. The razor smiles like a pearl in the darkness.
"Of course," says Nellie, seizing the razor. "Why wouldn't I? Tob – this is a problem that's got to be taken care of, and since I can't wait for the judge myself, it only makes sense that I do what I can to get it done."
Sweeney's eyes trail her fingers as they grasp the razor, averting his gaze with a belated sense of modesty as she reaches inside her dress to tuck the blade between her breasts, his stomach knotting. For all her ease with her convictions that everyone is full of shit and deserves to die, and all her comfortable familiarity with hacking corpses to bits, she's never actually murdered someone herself – much less the one someone who doesn't deserve to die, but must to serve the greater good.
"Well?" says Nellie sharply. "What're you waiting for?"
Sweeney's eyes drop to his shoes. "Sorry. I'll go wait for him. I'll knock upon the floor three times when he comes." His eyes raise and flit across hers once more, then he nods and turns to leave.
Her heart jumps in alarm as she suddenly realizes how callously she's treated him these past few minutes – if she wants him to do her bidding, it won't do to have him upset with her. What if he sends Turpin away – or, worse, kills Turpin himself before she arrives, out of spite?
"Sweeney," she blurts out, the first time she's ever addressed him by his given name.
He stops and turns back to her. The irises and pupils of his eyes are invisible in this black hour of night, just as they were last night, but the whites gleam purer than the moon.
Her mind shuts down. She forgets why she called to him. She forgets that she even did call to him.
She forgets to remember anything but now, everything but this.
She strides forward until they are a breath apart, puts one hand against his shoulder, and rests a kiss upon his lips.
Two moments pass in which hearts forget to beat.
Then Sweeney draws away. He reaches out one hand to cradle the side of her face in his palm.
"I love you," he says.
He knows it's not the time to say it. But he's never found the courage to whisper it anywhere except within his heart and he suddenly fears that he never will find the time or the courage again, if not now.
"I know," she says.
He begins to walk backwards. His hand remains on the side of her face until his arm can stretch no further and is forced to drop to his side. Only then does he turn around, marching out of the sewers and out of her sight.
A/N: A mere two chapters to go, my dear readers!
Reviews are love.