Page 53 of Razors & Ruin

It was Nellie who knew Johanna was not the key to anything other than my suffering. She drew me away, and the fates put the wind at her back, guiding a letter to my hands that took away all my doubt.

Or did it? Hawkins mentioned a priest. If I sit tight long enough, the Beadle may come, and I willmakehim tell me what he knows. Just to satisfy my curiosity, I will close the loop in my mind forever.

But Johannaisdead. I no longer want this to be a lie because Nellie was right all along; the alternate possibilities are too horrendous to contemplate. Still, the expression on her face—what does it mean?”

“What have you got to say?” I whisper again. “Come on, Nellie. The words you’re holding back are choking you. There’s nothing you can hide from me, not now.”

She wraps her arms around my neck, her fingertips snaking over my nape as she digs them into my scalp. Her kiss is too hot, and I taste salt on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs into my mouth. “I’m sorry about Johanna. I wanted to bring her home and be her mother. I know it’s insane, but I had a place for her too.”

My heart rushes, assailed by unfamiliar images of an alternative existence, a life stolen. Veronica, Nellie, and Johanna, jumbled in my memory like the pile of bones in the corner.

But Veronica is missing; her face is lost to me, and only her name echoes, ever fading. All I see is Nellie, my ring on her finger, babe in arms, her skin bright and unscarred.

How different it could have been.

“Thank you,” I say. “Seeing as you’re waiting on me, I’ll away to my parlor and see to business.”

Nellie smiles, her lips brushing my ear. “You know I’m always one step ahead, love.”

28

Nellie

The man looks like a lawyer. He’s undoubtedly well-off and well-turned. No shit on his heels. He cuts the crust neatly and spears a forkful of meat.

I’m not sure what I expect to happen. I’ll admit the pie looks and smells fantastic, all golden and ambrosial in its little nest of mash.

Turns out flesh is just flesh. Seasoned and cooked, it ceases to be a person. Now it’s nourishment, and my customer looks happy enough.

The food disappears between his lips, and I tense from head to toe. Will the sheer wrongness of it reach past the herbs and spices, singe his tongue with something Satanic, and send him running down the street?

No. He smiles and cuts a bigger piece, scooping up some of the spuds as he goes. I set a jug of gravy beside him and top off his ale.

“There we are, dearie,” I say. “Warming you through, isn’t it?”

He nods emphatically. “Superb, Mrs. Lovett, just marvelous. Best pie I’ve had in a while, and I go through a few.”

“You’re kind, sir. Eat up now.”

By one o’clock, I’m forced to close the doors. Word got around fast, as did the smell, and I sold out of Uriah’s batch in half an hour. I’m cleaned out for drink too. Even the brawn is all gone.

Mr. T has had a few callers. The packed shop provided a fair bit of sound cover, so I don’t know if he despatched any down the chute, and it’s not until I lock up that I realize I haven’t seen him at all.

He never came downstairs once while I was running myself ragged, but I suppose this is what partnership means. He must do his bit, and I must do mine.

I’ve committed myself to quite the gauntlet at dinnertime. Everyone who came in raved about the food, and well they might; there’s no cleaner, leaner meat in this city than mine. Endless supplies, as long as my man can deliver.

De-liver.Liver. There’s a thought. Kidneys, too. Steam some puddings, maybe? I can easily get some suet—no, I’ll have it already, won’t I? Human suet, scraped off those same loins.

It’s incredible how much a body can give. The savages of the New World use every scrap of the animal they kill and thank their gods for it, but I dare not get on my knees and addressmyGod; He may strike me down for my nerve.

Sweeney and I will make it. As long as we don’t bleed too much, we can bleed forever because he and I keep replacing that vital elixir, topping up to stay alive.

Blood, but not too much or too little. Love, but just the right amount of that, too. Not enough to smother, but plenty to bind.

With the last lunch pie but one gone, I lock up and take a quick walk down the street to the nearest inn. There’s always a likely lad or two hanging around outside, ready to run a message, and I hand a note to a skinny snipe who looks like he’s never eaten a hot meal in his life.

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