~Fly~

The history of the world, Nellie was fast learning, was to be betrayed by the ones you love – many times over.

"Wot did you do?" she repeated the question.

By the sea Mr Todd, Mr T by the sea –

It should have been obvious from the blood splattered floorboards; the pool of blood gathered in the centre of the kitchen table where the beggar woman's head rested.

That's the life I covet, covet, covet –

"You murdered 'er, didn't you?"

Nellie did not shake, though her knees wanted to fall from under her. She did not throw up or faint clean away, though she wished she might have done both things. She was witnessing the bloodbath of an unchanged man. Sweeney Todd simply couldn't help himself. He took blood when he wanted it, from whoever he wanted.

How I covet, covet, by the sea Mr T, we'd love it, love it –

"You can't give 'er up, can you?"

Nellie felt like his new bird. His amusing plaything. Just like the yellow-haired ward once stuffed up in the Judge's tower, bower.

"I didn't kill her Mrs Lovett," said the barber eventually. Some of the breath had returned to his lungs now he'd seen the worst of it. He didn't care for this beggar woman the way he'd cared for the real Lucy, but that didn't erase the scene. Someone had murdered her, and would have to be punished.

He brushed past the baker, and searched the poky little apartment, top to bottom. "There's no evidence. How did they know where to find me?"

Can we – still be – married?

Toby, where areeeeeeee you love?

She had no love, Nellie realised. All the people who loved her were dead. Her mother. Albert. Toby. Her miscarried children. Nothing that was done could be undone.

And Mr T had not changed a jot. Still up to his old tricks. Bleedin' women and consignin' them to the flames. Resurrected anger bubbled over and spilled from her throat.

"Wot's the matter Mr T," she mocked, "weren't there a fireplace big enough to chuck her in?"

His eyes clicked onto her as if they were the dials in a watch announcing the hour. "That's a dangerous accusation to make, my pet."

"You're a dangerous man, Mr T," she said woodenly, backing away from the threshold. "I ain't convinced you didn't bump 'er off."

"Why would I murder the effigy of my dead wife, Mrs Lovett?" he said through clenched teeth.

There were never so many questions when she was a child. Why couldn't they for one day go back to picnics and popping balloons and making little fairy bread sandwiches? They were sweet times then, when she'd had the heart to believe in fairies.

By the sea, by the sea, know you'd love it, love it –

"You tell me love," she asked finally.

Lucy No 2. was mocking her. The blood coated the woman's face like whore's make up, but it did not destroy the remaining strands of blonde locks peeking from beneath the bonnet. Someone had slit her throat, and done a real good job of it too.

Can we, can we, can we – still be –

The clouds outside could not be seen. In her mind, however, they swirled and gathered at an alarming rate, just as if the baker had always coveted clouds and dark truths, instead of that shining, storm-free sea –

She no longer coveted her life by the sea.

"Goodbye Mr T."

Some things could not be altered. He should know this as well as she.

She was not fast on her feet, but the laughing little beads of beggar woman blood spurned her on.

By the sea, by the sea, by the sea.

Mr Todd was shouting for her.

He was like Bluebeard shouting after her with his blade, just as if she were his seventh wife and had stumbled upon the bloody chamber. She had not asked him to butcher again. The fool's part of her had believed Lucy was finished and banished from her life. Her life then, had been mostly a fool's errand, these past fifteen years.

She had fooled herself, and he had allowed her to go on fooling them both.

"Mrs Lovett, you silly nit," he called.

He was coming after her now. She didn't turn to see if he had a blade.

She kept her sore legs dancing down that corridor. She would pay the price later.

"You're not going back to the Judge!" Sweeney roared.

She was already on the threshold of the stairs. He was at the corridor's end. In another world, you might say.

There were too many things bearing them away now. Perhaps he cared for her, in his twisted way. But what could excuse the woman's death back there?

"Fool," he snarled, but the fool was already hurrying down the stairs.

He did not bother to chase after her. If she was that desperate, the baker would scream and raise hell to get away. And for all that he did need her in this time, he refused to hand himself over to the Judge. It was not hard to guess who had murdered the beggar woman.

He let his feet follow the worn path back to the apartment. He would close the door, and begin cleaning up the mess instantly. He could not have his neighbours know he was a murderer – or better still, he should flee tonight. Now that the Judge knew his exact whereabouts, they would come back to find him. He had to get his few measly belongings, and get away –

"Mr Todd. Back in time for tea, I see," someone snorted.

The fat, bald man's face erupted in a clown-like grin.

Sweeney, by comparison, emitted as much cheer as an undertaker.

"Beadle Bamford," he said tonelessly, as if he had been expecting the unwelcome visitor.

* * *

Were any of you surprised? =p