Mrs. Lovett, Part One

Mrs. Lovett knew that men like him were rare—men with the stars in their eyes, men whose every action glowed, who did nothing without a healthy dose of passion. And yet, living and talking with him, watching him, it was obvious that he was no god—it was as if every slip-up, every stutter, every mistake only endeared him to her more. He was human through and through, but the sort of human who glittered when he walked, who moved with a grace that one couldn't learn.

The problem, she knew, was not this. The problem was that he had been able to find someone like him—someone nearly worthy of him—someone just as perfect as he was.

Lucy was lovely, pale, and pure; she was demure, and did not flirt so much as make all men fall instantly in love with her.

And Barker, being, of course, mortal, and not a god, was therefore quite susceptible to her spell.

Although she was young in these days, Mrs. Lovett knew love when she saw it: and this, this was no passing fancy; nor was it lust. They were made for each other, people said; their wedding was heavenly, and no one had ever seen a couple more in love.

Then their world ended.

Of course, of course, it was not Barker's fault; when she thought about it, Mrs. Lovett realized that in reality it was none of their faults, but still she felt the pang of anger each time she saw Lucy's face, still beautiful though slick with tears. So what, she wanted to cry, if your husband is gone?

At least he was your husband!

At least you can cry openly!

At least he loved you!

She wanted at each turn either to slap Lucy, to spit out some harsh, venom-worded rebuke, or to simply ignore the woman, and so she just treated her coldly, an act that took great restraint on Mrs. Lovett's part. The little whore probably didn't even notice; everyone was hugging her, giving her flowers, telling them how sad they were that her husband had done whatever blasted crime he had done to be shipped off. She was an angel, they all said, for enduring this.

This, this, Mrs. Lovett wanted to scream, is nothing. Look at me!

But she was silent.

And, of course, they came for the girl, as Mrs. Lovett knew they would; indeed, those same people who had been consoling her for Benjamin's disappearance were waiting, and watching. It did not take long at all for the vultures to come—the dirty, disgusting men, the ones that Lucy had been too perfect to be mean to. The unwanted suitors—and, in some corner of her mind, Mrs. Lovett wondered precisely what separated her from these people, the judge and his crony, his beadle.

The girl, in all her high, otherworldly thoughts, could think nothing but the best of them, and so she fell—gracefully, as always, if a little thoughtlessly—into their trap.

Mrs. Lovett cannot say precisely what happened that night, or why so many people knew and did nothing to stop the torture of the woman they said they loved. It was a party, and they were all there, decked out in their beautiful fashions, the high-society sociopaths, a place where the lady could finally fit in—a ball that could have been hers, if only she'd married the judge.

As it was, it was her hell. Mrs. Lovett surprised herself by feeling guilt threading through her veins, even before the lady came back from that party; she comforted herself by insisting in her mind that this pain that Lucy was feeling, it was nothing compared to her own heartache.

It didn't work.

When the girl came home, her face again stained and sticky with her own tears, her whole body shaking, wracked by sobs, Mrs. Lovett comforted her, gave her some ale, held her in her arms and let her sob. It wasn't fair; none of life was.

The next morning, the girl's tears were gone, and her expression held a certain stoniness that chilled Mrs. Lovett to the bone: it was as if all of the emotion had been sucked out of her, as if she had been forced to feel too much grief, and so had decided it was safer and much less painful to feel absolutely nothing at all. There was a one-word answer floating on her lips: poison.

The only way, she said: the only way to handle this, the only way to react. The only thing that could work.

And Mrs. Lovett let her go.

If the girl decided to end her own life, well, it was her own grief that made her do it; it was not malice but compassion that held Mrs. Lovett back as the door slammed in her face and the image of a pale-haired girl faded before her eyes; it was terror that kept her sitting in her chair, shaking with fright, wondering if Lucy would return home to die in her own home or if they'd find a body in the street in a week or two.

But she was not ready for what came for her.

Up the stairs came music—singing—the sweetest singing voice that Mrs. Lovett had ever heard. This was Lucy, had to be, and yet the song on her lips was not a personal requiem, but a quick dance, and the lyrics seemed to be the word "beadle" over and over and over. There was a certain fast cheeriness in the song that sent chills up and down her back, and she rose.

Mrs. Lovett moved to open the door, but the knob turned on its own accord and an unseen hand yanked the door open. The woman stared blankly into the visitor's face, unheeding for a moment; she opened her mouth to say something, anything, but all the words had fled.

It was not Lucy that stood there—it couldn't be—it was a monster, her eyes wide, her lips torn and bleeding. Mrs. Lovett realized that this was from her own teeth, and that the scratches on the backs of her hands had to be from the same thing.

The thing that once was Lucy stopped her song in mid-note and opened her lips into a smile, a little blood running down her skin and dripping off her jawline; there on her face were the same features, Mrs. Lovett saw, that were once so prettily done up with makeup and so lovingly caressed by Benjamin, but now were dripping with grime.

The creature, the thing, the girl, laughed, and, tossing her hair wildly over her shoulder, began to sing again. Then, her fingers, slick with her own blood, scrabbled on the doorknob; when she found her grip, she threw it shut, leaving Mrs. Lovett alone in the darkness. The still air resounded with the shrill singing, the same voice that had once belonged to an angel.

The woman sat heavily back down on her stool, her hands gripping each other tightly. This—this—this was payback for a crime never committed—this was unfair—a travesty. God or the Devil or whatever the hell was out there had turned a pretty little girl into a victim, and, after that, a monster. And all for a sin—suicide—that she hadn't even had a chance to commit.

If this was how God treats the angelic, the beautiful, Mrs. Lovett wondered, what the hell will happen to me?

((Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed and offered suggestions--I greatly appreciate it. I meant for this chapter to cover more, but when it didn't, and didn't even go that deep into Mrs. Lovett's psyche, I decided there will be two parts--one with Benjamin, and one with Todd. The second part will probably come next, and then, in random order, I have the Beadle, Pirelli, and of course Lucy, who I am saving for last. I might have two parts for her too.))