"Neither hide nor hair, Tobias, I promise," Mallory was growing tired of repeating this sentiment, but he understand the boy's concern. Toby paced across the floor, hands folded behind his back. Mallory still marvelled at the transformation from the childlike waif he had delivered here, to the academic young man preparing for university who stood before him now.

Toby paused in his pacing and regarded Mallory once again.

"You're sure?"

"Completely."

Toby dropped down into his desk chair and sighed. "Then why the letter?"

"No one is precisely sure," Mallory explained. "But we think it was a hoax, and a clever one. We underestimated Todd. He was misleading us in order to draw our forces out of London. It's been suggested that when you received that letter, Todd was still at Newgate."

Toby frowned, tapping agitated fingers against his desk blotter. "What possible reason could he have to remain there?"

"We think he and Lovett-" Toby flinched at the name, and Mallory swallowed. "They killed the guard and changed cells in the dead of night. As long as they stayed out of immediate sight, no one could have detected them. They waited until the hunt was in full swing and then broke out.

"They had to have help," Toby speculated.

"We think perhaps Mrs. Lovett's lawyer was hoodwinked in some way, that she secured funds through him, and probably managed to obtain various articles that would help them effect an escape."

"And they didn't leave London immediately, either. They stayed and murdered those people. Why?"

"I would say convenience and spite," Mallory said with a shrug. "They obviously needed different clothing than what was described on warrant posters, and the upperclass pair suited them well. As for the lawyers, I can only guess what Norwood might've done to offend them. We found him a ways out of the city- he might've caught up with them somehow. Oberlin, well...Todd had obvious reasons for wanting him dead."

"And no one knows where they are."

"I suspect they've left the country. They're beyond our reach, and you're out of their's."

"Physically, perhaps," Toby mused, glancing outside at the waving tree limbs that dominated his window. "But in my mind.."

"You mustn't think on it, Tobias," Mallory said sternly. "You shall only overexert yourself."

Toby could only nod and smile weakly. But he could not entirely supress the vision of Mrs. Lovett's reflection in Sweeney Todd's razor blade. He sighed, trying to brush off the shivering feeling. "You're right. Thank you."

"It is no trouble," Mallory said quietly, his expression softening. "You'll be at Oxford this time next year, and far away from all of this."

Toby nodded a quiet assent. But he could not shake the feeling that somehow, he was the victim of a viciously demonic joke.

--

New York, next to London, was vibrantly fresh and alive. Merchants, vendors, socialites, scholars, politicians and criminals made up the life blood that pumped throughout the city, making it a perpetual source of interesting comings and goings, doing and sayings, and even more interestingly, shootings and hangings. The underclass, far from being the dull stuporous lot that pervaded London's miserable streets, was a dazzling mix of rich intoxication, colourful decadence and violent animosity.

In any city where more money was spent on the styling of hair and the shaving of faces, a barber could prosper. And prosper, Mr. Todd and Mrs. Todd (neé Lovett) did. They immediately established themselves in the notorious Five Points, setting up shop in a three story tenement. After a brief time, they became quite accustomed to their new habitations. Todd's Parlour for Gentlemen maintained a regular (and broad) clientele, while Mrs. Todd's Pub and Eatery (Nellie's for short) did a roaring trade every night after the barber shop closed. Both were relieved to find their respective, lucrative businesses were never disturbed by the various fire brigade rivalries and gang wars that raged outside their doors.

While news of their escapades had not yet reached across the sea, Mr. And Mrs. Todd were immediately welcomed into the fold as fellow slum dwellers. Famed for their good services, they became quickly popular. Bill 'the Butcher' Poole was a frequent patron of both establishments, and a great admirer of Mr. Todd's. The latter's reputation as a dangerous and ruthless man spread after the corpse of one of the Tammany Hall aides had been found in the square, impaled through longways with a massive wrought iron meat skewer, his face slashed to ribbons and dripping with bloody lather. Whenever anyone tentatively tried to inquire as to what slight the man had committed, Mr. Todd would merely smile and make a silken, delicate remark about the weather.

Mrs. Todd, whose famous meat pies were renowned across the city, was at all times flirtatious and full of off-kilter charm. The contents of her pies (while mostly legitimate, save the occasional offender) were never revealed. She traded in gossip and good brandy, occupying her free time with the races, her garden, and primarily with her husband.

The affection displayed between the Todds was constant, lascivious and unapologetic. Lustful kissing between drinks or a quick grope against the wall was not at all uncharacteristic. Some regulars could recall the memorable occasion when an outsider had protested these attentions, and had been promptly reciprocated with the removal of his nose. Mr. and Mrs. Todd had then immediately returned to their foray behind the register, Todd's bloody hand crawling slowly but surely up his lady-wife's thigh.

In the short space of a year, Nellie's had become a haven for all manner of scoundrel. All violent disagreements (except those perpetrated by Mr. Todd) was pointedly removed to out-of-doors vicinities, while corrupt politicians would confer within the pub's smoky interior. Todd's authority was always respected. The rules of etiquette were simple, but ironclad. The residents of the Five Points did not suffer outsiders.

Johanna and Anthony Hope made a point to purchase a house on the Hudson river a little ways outside the city in addition to their English estate. While Todd and Lovett were content to visit them there (or years later, in England) the Hopes rarely frequented the Five Points, as Johanna much preferred her father in the country where he had less cause to be violent. However, when they did visit the area, Todd always welcomed them happily.

His daughter was slowly learning to accept his villainous nature. Anthony, however, could never really quell his apprehensions. The discovery that his friend was in fact a psychotic mass murderer had never sat well with him, and he flinched every time Todd so much as looked at him. Todd admitted to himself that he somewhat enjoyed terrorizing the boy. Though he never really had any designs on his son-in-law, he had found a vindictive pleasure in reminding Anthony that he was alive at his pleasure. Johanna tried in vain to dissuade him from this attitude, but Todd had never quite forgiven Anthony for marrying her without his consent. Of course, that didn't mean Todd was displeased with her choice: as annoying as the young sailor could be, he was utterly subservient to his wife, and it pleased Todd to see his daughter as a powerful woman rather than a pretty ornament.

During those brief visits, Anthony would often be found chewing on a pipe next to a gossipping former Mrs. Lovett, while Johanna and her father would discuss all manner of things during a game of cards or checkers.

Todd was notoriously protective of his daughter- it was immediately established that the Hopes were not to be troubled, nor Mrs. Hope commented upon (ever) as the one and only man to do so quickly found that his right eye had become the centre of an impromptu dartboard. Predictably, the bar's patrons ignored their fellow's screaming cries of agony and remarked on Mr. Todd's impeccable aim.

Johanna, naturally, was appalled by this behaviour, and even more appalled at her father's lackadaisical dismissal of it. He had killed with a passionate rage, and he had killed people with the same indifferent methodology as he might do a chore: these things would always trouble her.

"Sometimes I think this is the edge of civilization," she remarked one night to Mrs. Todd. Twenty feet away, their respective menfolk played billiards.

"Oh, not at all," Mrs. Todd replied, rolling a slim cigarette. "It is the beginning, you might say. Your father is set in his ways, and he is a demon, to be sure. But he gets what he wants, and that isn't any less civilized."

"I don't know what you mean, Eleanor," Johanna said demurely as she watched Todd sink a striped ball.

"He's out of place in your world. In your world, men with less money are ruled by men with more. In ours, men are whoever they choose to be. And the man with the most power is the man who is willing to do what no one else is." Mrs. Todd tapped the ash off her cigarette. "Put it this way. Mr. T put a dent in that man's eye. But now the boldest rogue in the Points wouldn't dare to even blink in your direction."

"That is dreadfully barbaric logic."

"Men are dreadful villains. No matter where you are."

Johanna sighed. "And my father is the most dreadful of them all."

Mrs. Todd smiled in the direction of her husband. "It is lucky for us that is true, Johanna. We should have had a very bad time of it, indeed, without him."

Johanna heaved another sigh as she watched an agitated Anthony gesticulate frantically while he and Todd contested a scratch. After one incredulous arch of the latter's eyebrow, the matter was quickly resolved and the game resumed. In Todd's favour, of course.

Without really thinking about it, Johanna reached across the table and took one of Mrs. Todd's cigarette papers and a pinch of tobacco. She rolled it up and lit it, leaning back against the booth as she took a long drag. The vision of her father's strong back was fogged by thin curling smoke. It cleared slowly as he turned, and his normally dour visage broke into a fond smile. Unable to help herself, Johanna smiled back.

--

In London, things ran as smoothly as they ever had. Sir Richard Blunt was found guilty of fraudulence and corruption, and was sentenced to fifteen years hard labour at Botany Bay. The judges were pointedly harsh on account of the fact that Blunt had allowed the story of Turpin's blatant abuses of power to leak, bringing social havoc upon them all. In order to mollify the press, a high ranking officer had to be made an example of. But before he could be extradited, Blunt was found hanged in his cell, an exquisitely printed brochure for Todd's New York Parlour for Gentlemen lying beneath his feet.

--

Tobias Reginald was rising quickly to academic greatness, but he still suffered nightmares on a regular basis. As an attempt to clarify his emotions, he had assigned himself an ongoing narrative of his experiences. Toby found relief in the work, finding the trauma eased by methodical analysis. Growing to over two hundred pages, it had become something of a thesis. His teachers encouraged him to publish it, but he preferred to keep it private, at least for the moment. Although he did plan to release it someday, if only to combat Morgan Quinn's extensive and gaudy essays.

In his spare time, Toby immersed himself in all manner of books. He attended plays quite frequently: Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw being his favourite of the contemporaries. He adored Shakespeare as well, and had an astounding memory for lyrical verse. He was fonder of the spoken word out of all academia and planned for a career in journalism, hoping to bring some credibility and intelligence to the form. No attempts by his peers or his tutors could dissuade him: he felt he would serve best in the world by telling the truth.

During the summer heatwaves of July, Toby might be found down at the embankments, his nose buried in a book. He might share a smile with one of the beautiful young women of St. Catherine's, who might be passing by.

On this particular day, he was stuck in the middle of a composition. He was sprawled out across the warm grass, bathed in the midday sun. He savoured the feeling of being warm: on the street, winter was bitterly cold, and in the summer, there had been no time or place to laze- not with the constant hunger in his stomach.

Today, he was content to lie there, his assignment resting on his chest as he listened to the blue river eddy along its course with its cheerful watery intonations. As a faint breeze wafted over him, he opened his eyes, slid his papers and pencil case to the side and rolled onto his stomach, examining the grassy slope. The entire hillside was illuminated by sunshine, and Toby soon spied Thom, the mail boy, scuttling down the slope with his mail bag slung over his shoulder.

Toby always made a point to be kind to Thom: the boy was from the same class as he, and Toby was proud of his heritage while others might have done their best to forget it. He had decided it was testament to his ability to persevere. He reminded Thom often that he too could make the same advancements through hard work and schooling, though his advice often fell on deaf ears, the boy's young mind being dominated by which penny dreadful novel he would purchase next.

Thom was responsible for delivering Toby's monthly stipend and was pleased to do so, as he always received a handsome tip. Today, however, the sandy haired boy lifted not an envelope from his bag, but a thick package.

"Someone dropped this for you last night. From America, no less!" Thom said excitedly as Toby accepted the package from him and examined it. There was no return address, but the post stamp read 'New York'.

"Thank you, Thom," Toby said distractedly, fishing out a one pound coin. Thom took it gleefully.

"Thankin' you kindly, Master Reginald."

He scampered away, clutching the coin tightly to his chest.

Toby assessed the package. It was unremarkable, bulky, though not weighty. Its contents were pliable and soft. Full of a strange apprehension, he unwrapped it, tearing away at parchment and white tissue paper, until at length, a red muffler tumbled out. A small shudder went through him. It was soft, fine wool, neatly assembled in perfect rows. Trembling, he set it down on his lap.

He saw in his mind's eye Mrs. Lovett, demonstrating the proper way to roll dough. He could feel the supple yeast in the palm of his hand, the flour between his fingers. He could sense that unearthly presence even before the tobacco smoke reached his nose. It was as if they were there again. Mr. Todd would so casually rest a hand on Lovett's shoulder, while she would continue instructing him, her smile growing a fraction. Those telltale signs that had persisted early in their collaboration would be there- small red flecks on Todd's shirt and vest, and the daubs of dried brown on Lovett's apron . After a short while, they had disappeared completely, which had confused Toby at the time. He knew now that it was an indication of the pair's improvement at their favourite sport: killing.

Oh, those sickly sweet moments when she had first proffered the very same muffler. She rocked him like a babe, promised him no one would harm him. All the while, the scent of blood and tobacco smoke clouded his mind, reassuring him that he would die tonight.

Toby lifted the muffler to his nose again, and identified those same terrifying scents: blood, tobacco and rose water.

He remembered those heady days when Mrs. Lovett would order him to attend to the customers. He remembered Mr. Todd sending him to the butcher's to get his blades sharpened. He remembered the warmth of the oven and Lovett's smoky singing voice as she reeled through quaint and ridiculous parlour songs, each a ludicrous little lullaby bringing him closer to sleep. He remembered the atrocious pounding from the battle above as he crouched in the cellar beneath the trap door, trying with all his might to block out Todd's roar of fury, even as it reached into his very heart, threatening to halt it altogether.

Where were they now? Tussling in the streets of New York, still trying to kill each other? Or were they prospering somewhere in the higher reaches of that fantastical city? Were they as gentrified as he was, or were they poor? Did they wish him ill? Were they planning his demise?

Were they laughing at him?

Toby owed everything to them, and they in turn, persisted thanks only to his childish fears. The irony was as keenly sharp as a papercut. Staring down at the thick wool, he heaved a sigh, and began to scale the bank down to the river. Rolling the muffler into a ball, he flung it into the water.

It clung to the surface for long minutes before starting a slow descent. Even under the surface, the muffler's colour was bright and visible, corrupting the normally pure waters. It was the perfect image of bloodshed, as if a razor had delved into the skin of the river and torn it asunder. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the undertow sucked it away, leaving Toby with only the memory, and a heavy heart. For he could not help but feel that some of that blood was on his hands, too.

Shaking off the vision, Toby turned away and trudged up the slope, determined to return his thoughts the world of the living: the bright sunshine, the laughter of the girls across the river. All the things that made his life worthwhile were waiting for him in the coming years, all the things that would remind him constantly of how far removed he was from Fleet Street.

Dwell on demons no longer.

Yards away, in his gentile top hat and black silk waistcoat, Sweeney Todd stood at ease, one hand resting on the top of his eagle-headed gentleman's cane, the other holding a pair of spotless white gloves. Idly, he observed his quarry, comfortably invisible in the garb of the upperclass. Silently, he perceived Tobias' contemplations, watched the emotions pass across the boy's face, and then the grim determination as he threw the muffler into the river. Satisfied, he smiled his death's head smile and turned away, of a mind to set sail for New York within the hour.

Fin