Page 55 of Razors & Ruin

My heart swells. “We do, love. We really do.”

It’s five minutes before opening, and the gloom wraps around Fleet Street like a cloak, mocking the memory of the brief sunshine. Autumn leaves tumble down the street, caught in the wick breeze that rolls in from the river.

I’ve done what I can.

There are new benches outside, lots of plates, mashed potatoes, and gravy in vast pots, ready to decant. I took delivery of several ale barrels, and the pies are stacked high, packed to the gills with the minced remains of three innocent people, plus my secret seasoning blend.

My message runner returned as promised and took his own pie away, pathetically grateful to be eating anything warm.

Sweeney appears from the lounge, changed and respectable in a clean waistcoat and shirt.

“I’ve decided to start a sideline selling bottles of ground-up bones,” I say. “If I lob in a bit of salt and pepper, I can call it Mrs. Lovett’s Pie Magic and make a killing on the side.”

He surveys the scene. “I’m impressed, treacle, but mind your language. That’s a turn of phrase that puts people in mind of exactly the sort of nefarious doings we’re into.”

“No one is going to suss us out,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. “It’s too elegantly sickening for the common mind to conceive of. Besides?—”

“Extra!” The newsboy outside starts up his customary cry, and I groan in exasperation, heading for the door.

“Oi!” I shout as I open it. “Don’t stand outside my establishment fucking yelling! Go to the corner.”

He flips me off. “Fuck off, Mrs. L.”

Sweeney appears beside me and snatches the papers from the boy’s hand before he has a chance to retreat.

“I will shove every one of these up your arse if you so much as speak to Mrs. Lovett again, you cheeky little cunt. What could be so interesting that you must shout about it?”

“J-just the evening edition, sir,” the boy stammers. “You’re right, it ain’t interesting, not at all.”

Sweeney extracts the top paper and drops the bundle into a puddle. The newsboy cusses and gathers up the soaking pile, scurrying down the street just as the first batch of diners bears down on us.

“Mrs. Lovett!” A gentleman in a fine wool overcoat doffs his topper in my direction. “I’ve brought my whole family along. If your pies are as good as I’ve heard, we shall make a habit of it. I enjoy supporting local enterprise.”

Mr. T holds the door open, and the group files inside, chattering. I follow, snatching the newspaper from his hand as I pass and tossing it beneath the counter.

“I need your hands, love,” I say. “Will you stay and help me?”

“Helpyou?” He picks up a tin ale jug and fills it. “I’ll work my fingers to the bone, my pet. It’s your turn to shine.”

29

Sweeney

Dinner is a fuckingtriumph.

The place is heaving, to the extent that Nellie has to turf people out when they’re finished, and a queue forms despite the cold night.

I’m surprised at myself as I watch my woman go about her business. She’s prim and neat in her high-necked dress, her dark waves pinned beneath a lacy cap, eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Her lips are dusky, like frosted roses, and her mouth is animated as she works the room.

Of course, sir. Drop more ale? Oh, the Cotswolds, how charming! I love the seaside myself, the ocean air does a body good. How’s your wife keeping? More gravy? A slice of this, a dollop of that?

When Nellie realizes that hungry people are patient, she fires up the oven and keeps me running while she whips up another batch of pies. It’s against my nature to serve at tables, but Iallow the hectoring voices and calls for attention to meld into a pleasing dirge.

All I want isher. My Nellie, with her lissom hips and warm, industrious hands. That mouth, those breasts, her yielding holes. The hardness of her character, the extraordinary courage of her scarred heart.

A treasure, she is. A diamond in the rough, an ancient hoard of gold buried deep in the dirt. Mine and mine alone, to use, abuse, and just maybe, adore until my dying day.

Tonight is the start of something that may come to mean everything to me. Nellie, the pie shop, my parlor—it’s all greater than the sum of its parts.

---