Author's Note: The fourth installment, in which Johanna embarks on a painful adolescence and Judge Turpin does not help matters. Lucy is more of an "off-screen" character in this chapter, but she's still very important. The title is from "Just Like a Woman" by Bob Dylan.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd this time, either.

Warnings: Emotional abuse and a traumatic first period, mostly. Also, some pretty severe self-hatred from Johanna and mentions of prostitution. Finally, Turpin is…well, Turpin. He's not lusting after her at this point, but he's still bringing all his terrifying ideas about sex and women into his interactions with her, so it's still going to be disturbing.

Chapter Four: Your Long-Time Curse

When she's thirteen, Johanna wakes up with blood on her sheets and thinks she's dying. It's a nasty shock, one she feels to the soles of her feet, but after a few minutes, she more or less accepts her fate. She's sad that she'll never be a full-grown lady who puts up her hair and goes to balls, but she suspects Father will never let her do those things, anyway, even when she's twenty years old. Lately, she feels like nothing will ever happen to her. She'll spend the rest of her life in this house, working at her sampler and looking after her birds. Perhaps it's just as well that the rest of her life won't be that long.

She'll miss Father, of course. She loves him dearly, more than anyone she knows. Not that she knows many people. The servants are well-trained and barely speak to her, her governess thinks her disagreeable and willfully stupid, and she hasn't had a nurse in years. Beadle Bamford despises her almost as much as he adores Father. Her natural parents died when she was a baby, so she never knew them enough to love them. Father's the only person alive who really cares about her, so she tries hard to please him. Most of the time, though, she only disappoints him by sulking or being impertinent to her governess. He never hits her like the cruel guardians in novels, but he doesn't have to. His disapproval is heavier than a hand could ever be, and his chastisements sting more than any switch. It's a wicked thought, but the idea of escaping his judgment fills her with relief. Besides, he'll probably be angry at her less often when he finds out she's dying.

Then it occurs to her that he can never find out that she's dying. If he knows that she's dying, he'll know that she's bleeding from between her legs. Her stomach already hurts—she thinks that's where the wound is, actually—but the possibility of him find out makes it churn even more. Suddenly, she's struck by the unfairness of her situation. It's not enough for her to die young and painfully; she also has to be afflicted with a humiliating disease as well. She knows she's not a good girl, but she's sure there are people worse than her. If God chose to punish her this way, she doesn't even want to think about what he does to men who murder their wives and women who sell themselves on the street.

It's not for you to question the Lord, Johanna, she reminds herself, although it sounds like Father's voice in her head. Anyway, she's not supposed to know about that kind of woman. She only found out because of the madwoman who loiters in the street below her window. Most of the time, she only begs for money, but sometimes she yells rude things at men and points to the front of their trousers. If the trousers are tight enough, Johanna is able to make out a bulge. The madwoman has many names for this thing—cock, prick, dick, yard, willy, pole, sausage, pipe, and, most oddly, pudding—and she tells the men they can put it inside her for a few pennies. It sounds extremely unpleasant for both parties, in Johanna's opinion.

She glances down at the bloodstained sheet and sighs. Criticizing God and mulling over obscene matters isn't just sinful; it's downright useless. She needs to hide this mess so she can end her earthly existence in the least shameful way possible. It's about half an hour before her maid brings up the tea tray, so she has a little time.

She climbs out of bed and goes to the windowsill, where she keeps her sewing basket. There she finds her scissors, which she takes back to the bed. Carefully, she cuts around the offending bloodstain until she has a square of cloth roughly the size of her palm. Then she takes the square to the fireplace and throws it into the flames, which devour it with satisfying quickness. She allows herself a smile. The chambermaid won't notice the missing fabric when she makes the bed, since the mattress is the same color as the sheet, and the laundress will have it mended without saying a word to anyone.

Next, she slips out of her nightgown and examines the damage done. The blood is all near the hem, thanks to her childish habit of squirming in her sleep. She cuts a wide strip off the bottom, slashes it to tiny pieces, and throws those scraps into the fire, too. Now all evidence of her terrible ailment is gone, save the blood on her legs. After returning the scissors to their basket, she washes that away as well. Then she goes to her closet, puts on her linen and stockings, and, after a moment of thought, folds an old handkerchief into a rectangular pad and shoves it down her pantalets. When her maid arrives with the tea, it's as though nothing ever happened.

What's done in the dark will be brought to the light. Johanna knows this perfectly well, so she's not surprised when Father summons her to his study late that afternoon. She supposes he wants to scold her for her inattentiveness at lessons. Her imminent death has cast a strange lethargy over her, making it difficult to concentrate on French or the history of England.

She makes her way to his study and knocks on the heavy oak door. Now, more than ever, she feels like there's something awful in her, like she's rotting from the inside out.

"You may come in," she hears Father say, so she does. He's sitting behind his massive desk with a heavy book open in front of him. He raises his head at the sound of the door opening and smiles, but his eyes are sad. Her stomach drops. She knows she's disappointed him yet again.

"Good afternoon, Father," she says. Her voice comes out as a squeak and she hates herself for it. "Did you want to speak to me?"

"I did," he replies, still smiling. "Close the door behind you."

"Yes, sir," she says. She shuts the door and comes to stand on the carpet in front of his desk. For a long moment, he just stares at her until she feels about three inches tall. It's almost a relief when he speaks.

"I understand that you mutilated your nightgown, Johanna," he says drily. "Half a foot is missing from the hemline, which is now very ragged. Can you explain yourself?"

"Sir, I…" she starts, but then she realizes that she can't explain herself, not unless she wants to reveal the truth. "I don't know why I did it," she finally says. Her voice breaks on the last word. "I'm sorry, Father."

He shakes his head and looks very sorry for her.

"I provide decent clothing for you. Wouldn't you say that's true, Johanna?"

"Yes, sir," she says, biting her lip. In truth, she has more dresses than she knows what to do with, as well as shoes and bonnets and various other pretty things.

"I don't just equip you with the correct daytime attire, though. I also make sure that you have proper nightgowns. Do you agree with me?"

"Yes, sir," she repeats. Tears threaten to leak from her eyes. Even though she knows she didn't mean to be ungrateful, she wants to beg him for forgiveness.

"Then why, tell me, would you shorten the hemline of your nightgown by six inches?" Now he's talking in his dangerous voice, low and precise. "Did you wish to display your legs like a common harlot?"

"I don't know why I did it," she repeats. Then she burst into tears. She doesn't even know what a harlot is, but the word makes her think of the madwoman and her embarrassing invitations to men. "I'm so sorry, Father."

For a while, he says nothing, just gazes at her sternly. Then his expression softens.

"I forgive you, Johanna," he says. "You didn't know what you were doing, did you?"

"Yes, sir," she says truthfully. In fact, she still doesn't understand what he says she did, but she decides it would be best not to mention it. Instead, she takes a handkerchief from her pocket and dries her eyes. Father smiles at her indulgently.

"You look so much like your mother," he says. "She was very beautiful, but she wouldn't do what was right. Much like you, she was stubborn and given to sulking. You must learn obedience and self-discipline if you wish to avoid turning out like her."

"Yes, sir," she says again. She doesn't know how her mother ended her life, only that she died. As far as she knows, Father's warning has come too late, because she's already being punished for taking after her mother with this dreadful disease. "I'll try to do better."

"Looks like you've started your courses, Miss Barker," her maid says that evening, as she helps Johanna out of her corset. "I'll get you some rags once I'm done with this. Would you like some tea as well, or perhaps a warming brick?"

"What?" says Johanna. She immediately realizes how uncouth she sounds, but she can't help it. This is the most her maid has ever spoken to her and she doesn't understand half of what's being said. "What are you talking about, Violet?"

"Your courses," Violet says matter-of-factly. "You've got blood all over the back of your pantalets and I suppose you're just about old enough. It's nothing to worry about, Miss. It's just the curse, that's all."

"What?" Johanna repeats. She feels like the world has started spinning the other way round. "You mean I'm not going to…I'm not ill?"

You're not going to die, she thinks, as Violet lets out a laugh that isn't exactly unkind. Oh, Johanna, did you want to die? Suddenly, she feels like she's been walking down a dark, narrow path, surrounded on both sides by wolves, without even being aware of it. She knows that she doesn't want to die now. It's just that she feels like she's already dying, suffocating like a walled-up nun in her father's house, and she has no idea how to escape.

"Of course not," Violet says. She's stopped laughing by now. "It happens to all women. It's messy and uncomfortable, but it won't kill you. Besides, it only lasts a few days a month. Don't let it trouble you, Miss."

"Thank you, Violet," she replies. She can feel the heat rushing to her face. She's never been more embarrassed—no, humiliated—in her life. She was such a fool, thinking she was dying from something that happens to all women, and now Violet knows about it. "I won't let it bother me."

Once she's in bed, though, with a warm brick at her side and a properly folded rag between her legs, all she can do is rage and grieve over the curse, but not the one God put on all women. That's a heavy burden, but it's nothing she can't live with. What she can't bear is the curse she inherited from her mother, who made no will but left her a king's ransom of sins and failures. Her mother, who left her alone.

Outside her window, she can hear the madwoman, but she isn't asking for money or shouting rude things. She's singing in a scratchy, wavering voice that Johanna finds oddly sweet despite her own wild, helpless fury.

"Sleep, baby, sleep," she warbles, and Johanna recognizes it as a lullaby. "Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the dream-land tree. Down falls a little dream for thee…"