Page 82 of Razors & Ruin

We’re both scarred, her more than me, but by her own hand. She hides them from curious stares, but I spend hours mapping them with my fingertips, learning her pain.

She told me about her father one night, after too much drink. The things he made her do.

He was too much of a coward to fuck her, afraid he’d injure her, but on the night of her mother’s death, in the bathroom, he went for broke.

She slashed his face with his razor—such dramatic irony couldn’t be conceived by the most talented playwrights—and he relented, afraid of his daughter’s madhouse rage.

He believed a woman could kill him, and that’s why he dragged her to the workhouse as soon as the sun came up.

“You’ll not be short of finery, love,” I say. “We’ll have a few days off work while the dust settles. I suggest we put it about that you took ill last night, and that’s why the shop was shut.”

She holds the dress to her body, swinging her hips to make the skirt swish. “And what about Sommers?”

“He won’t be back. The law will assume the Beadle and the priest were caught up in the libertine activities that put the Wetherbys in the ground.”

I show her the trunk and suitcases. “We can burn these. The police will find all the valuables and luggage gone, and with no sign of a break-in, Occam’s Razor applies.”

She cocks her head. “What’s that?”

I smile. “Principle of parsimony, my pet. In short, it means the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

“You’re so clever, Mr T. You really think it’ll work out?”

I nod. “The old man was wrapped up in some horrible shit, and coming out of that smelling like roses would be a tall order. He won’t risk Johanna’s future, and I will keep my wagging tongue to myself.”

She tosses the dress and twirls into my arms, surprising me with a rough, biting kiss that makes my cock twitch.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d lend it to me occasionally,” she murmurs.

“You bet I will,” I say. “And don’t you worry your pretty head. If Occam’s Razor fails, I have one of my own, and I know how to use it.”

A street organ starts up outside. Serendipitously, it plays theDanse Macabre, and Nellie and I start to laugh.

I swoop her into my arms and lead her in a waltz, spinning her nimbly amongst our ill-gotten gains.

“We have a wedding to plan,” I murmur.

She swoons and drops her head on my chest. “Oooh, Mr T.”

I give her hair a firm tug, and she responds with a hiss, like a feral cat.

“I want that shop sign swapped before the month is out. Mrs Todd’s Meat Pie Emporium.”

I grab her chin. “Too long have I tolerated another man’s name stuck to my woman like a fucking leech. Saymyname. Now.”

“Sweeney Todd,” she whispers. “AndIam Mrs. Nellie Todd.”

Damn fucking right.

EPILOGUE

One month later…

Nellie

The church is almost deserted. The new parish priest is younger than Sommers and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

We roped in the sexton and the old woman who plays the organ to be witnesses. They stand side by side, awkwardness radiating from them, and I can’t help but wonder whether they have a bit of a history. Outside, snow falls silently, piling up in the graveyard.

---