Page 27 of Razors & Ruin

Nellie is crying. Maybe she knows it, maybe she doesn’t, but as I help her to her feet, her eyes shimmer. She reminds me of a child, and for the first time, I wonder about her life.

Didn’t she want for better? Did she come from dark places or was she merely lost to them?

And why the fuck do I care? I’ve never cared, and to do so now would be a travesty.

“Home, treacle,” I say. “You did well.” I pick up my razor and pocket it before reaching for her. “Give me your hand.”

Her smile is steeped in regret, and it reminds me of Veronica. She weaves her fingers through mine.

“Oh, Mr. T,” she sighs. “Youdidask for it after all.”

15

The next morning…

Nellie

Strips of muslin bind our shredded skin, safely hidden beneath long sleeves. The cuts will heal and congeal, but I wonder whether we will survive long enough to watch them fade to silver.

Sweeney and I drifted back to the shop last night, hand in hand, and washed each other’s wounds. I could not fathom him; he was so still, so placid, in a way that seemed terrifyingly at odds with the man who had so far been nothing but a storm in my life.

Now, he paces his parlor floor like the proverbial spider, watchful, focused.

I busy myself with the needle, tacking patches of Marianne’s hide to the sides and back of the battered chair.

“It’s not a pretty job,” I say, tugging the needle through, “but it will keep the stuffing in. Which is much as we can ask of it, given that’s all it could do for Marianne herself.”

Sweeney stops and drops his forehead against the window, scanning the street below. “He’d better fucking show,” he murmurs. “I want to ask him a few things. Do you suppose he knows where Johanna went?”

I sit back on my heels. “It’s possible. He was always privy to things he shouldn’t be; it’s how he kept his position for so many years. Are you sure he didn’t recognize you? For all you know, he’s bringing the law with him.”

“For what?” Sweeney doesn’t look my way. “I haven’t done anything wrong. The workhouse doesn’t lament the loss of another lost man at their door. I have you, this place, my tools, and a vocation. I served my time; he’d leave me be.”

“Don’t bait him, Mr. T,” I say. “He’s a nasty bastard. You will get many more bees buzzing your way with honey than vinegar. If he can help you get some business and find your daughter, you can do worse than to wind your neck in.”

“It’s not my neck anyone should be fucking worrying about.”

I sigh. In the cold light of day, he seems so careless, so mired in the wrongs and injustices that weigh him down. There are things he could keep now, things he should have sense enough to preserve.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I ask, getting to my feet and tying off the last piece of thread. “You have no goddamn daughter. She was never yours, and wherever she is now, she won’t be redeemed to you, nor you to her.”

He maintains a straight back, his gaze on the heads of the city folk as they pass, and I feel a jolt of visceral panic. Is he ignoring me? How dare he?

“Sweeney, you are not listening!” My voice rises despite my efforts to keep it level. “It’s not her, do you understand? It’s?—”

“There he is!” Sweeney jabs the glass with his fingertip. “Right there, looking for me.” His head whips to face me. “Get out.”

I know he didn’t hear a word, and now the chance has passed. I swallow the bile in my throat and head down the stairs to accost the man himself.

Beadle Higgins stands at the stoop, admiring the barber’s pole. He gives me a toothy grin as I descend, and I allow him to take my hand. He presses fishlike lips to it, and I give a curtsey, battling to keep the disgust off my face.

“Good morning, Beadle,” I say. “Mr. Todd is waiting for you.”

The horrible man nods and follows my gesture, waddling slightly as he climbs the stairs toward the parlor. I’m put in mind of a particularly fat, juicy insect, and wonder whether Sweeney will heed my warnings to play with his prey.

It seems all too possible for him to spike the Beadle here and now, leaving me with a corpse that really would crush my hopes and dreams. A dead nobody in a yellow dress is not the same as a deceased local man of renown.

I set about rolling pastry in the shop, trying to get it thin like the crumbly crust we sampled last night. At least no plague-ridden pests are clogging up my wares, disgusting though they still are.

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