All his life he had asked no questions, and when he had been talked to, everything he heard was lies. Because of that, all the statements he ever said were lies, lies, lies, but to call them out, to watch all of the townspeople scurry to him and eat up everything he said, that was the best part of his life. Because, God knew, the hours after it were the worst. Pirelli was not a friend. To work until his fingers bled, till his eyes felt as if they were going to fall out, that wasn't quite hell: coming home only to get beaten and screamed at, that was hell. Apparently his lies, his sweet, lovely lies, they weren't enough. What else could he give, though? He asked no questions, but he still wondered.
Sometimes, when he could think of nothing else to do, he sat still, as still as he could, and thought: and the thoughts that flowed through his minds seemed not to be his. They seemed much more intelligent than he ever thought he could be. He wondered why events could be both bad and good at the same time, while people, people, seemed to be either good or bad; why was it that people, who made events happen anyways, were so uncomplicated, while the things that they did seemed to flow out in every direction, changing everything, good and bad all at once?
So it was the day that Pirelli left him, the day he met Mrs. Lovett.
Bad things at first: Pirelli lost some sort of contest, and he was mad. More mad than Toby had ever seen him. Pounding mad, fists-kicks-screams mad, although when he was in front of a crowd he acted like such a gentleman. It was as if the moment he was out of the public's eyes, he was possessed by demons, and Toby was afraid.
Later that day, they went over to the barber's shop, the one who'd defeated Pirelli. Toby wondered what he was doing there, but didn't dare open his mouth: with the state his master was in, it wouldn't be wise, wouldn't be smart to ask questions. So he held them in and watched. That evening, when he realized with a deep sinking sensation that Pirelli really wasn't coming back, it was the worst day of his life, or so he thought; but the lovely Mrs. Lovett held him in her arms and pet him like he was her own and crooned to him and for the first time in his life, he was happy.
He was content to follow her after that, and although he hadn't even followed around Pirelli so faithfully, almost like a puppy, he was not ashamed; this was, of course, not his old Master, it was a new one, a new, kinder one, who made disgusting – but filling – meat pies and let him drink like he was an adult and didn't make him wear silly wigs or tell lies. In fact, he hardly ever lied anymore, and he made a promise to himself, a promise he never broke, that he would never, ever lie to Mrs. Lovett. She deserved more than lies, more than Pirelli deserved. People were either all good or all bad, he had learned in his short life: Mrs. Lovett was good, all good, and Pirelli was all bad.
Mr. Todd, though, he didn't understand. The man was quiet and stony and mean, but he didn't hurt Toby, and though Toby didn't know a thing about him, he trusted him, trusted him wholly, because Mrs. Lovett was a friend, the best friend he'd ever had.
But then the feelings began to eat at him. Premonitions, one could call him, or guesses; and he could hardly stand to look at the man without the thoughts flooding back into his head. Toby knew he was not that intelligent, but neither was he stupid, and he knew, he knew. He tried to tell Mrs. Lovett. She wouldn't listen.
How was it that people listened to all he said when all he said was lies, but the moment he began to speak the truth, people stopped listening to him?