The man opens his eyes, and the first thing that he realizes is that he's rather cold. How can that be? He never expected to feel again, the second his skin hit the water he expected that he would die. But he wasn't dead - he was cold.
Everything's blurry, as if he's seeing things through broken glass. At first he's under the impression that his eyes have been slower to wake up than his mind, but he soon sees that the weather is the cause of his impaired sight. It's snowing. There's wood beneath his feet, and muffled voices are coming from various places around him. But the amazing part is that it's snowing. Wherever he is, it's snowing.
It doesn't take him long to realize that he's on a boat; someone under the impression that Benjamin Barker had never sailed before obviously had naivety to match anyone's. The sounds envelope him in familiarity, even though the sights are hard to see through the wet ivory flakes that fall around him.
He's stricken with the beauty of it, although he can't fathom why. He's never seen snow this white - how could he have ever been such a fool as to think his prior residence in England had any appeal? He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with air that remains untainted by London filth.
Of course, though, he'll be going back there if he has any say. A new emotion has filled him, an unknown hatred, and a strong desire. They're laced with hope, but he knows that fifteen years is a long time. He also knows that the last place he wants to reside again is the streets of London. But even as the tantalizing snow falls around him, the weight on his shoulders is pushing him back to where he once lived . . . and loved.
Curiosity is edging at his lips, but knowledge keeps him from making his presence known. He doesn't know it at the moment, but he'll soon be confronted by a young man who goes by the name Anthony Hope, and the decisions will flow naturally as he discovers that he'll have no difficulty being escorted back to London.
The woman resides on Fleet Street, in closer residence with demons and shadows and ghosts than anyone should ever have to be. She steps outside to the cold morning air, and she's greeted by an uncommon snow shower.
Not that that's anything pleasant. London snow is disgusting. It hits the ground, she thinks in irritation, and immediately turns an unattractive shade of brown. London snow is dirty.
Muttering words of self-pity, she directs her gaze upward. The soft flakes are still a calm white, and if she thinks hard enough she can almost imagine being somewhere where the snow stays white like this.
She can just about picture herself on a boat. On a boat, on the sea, with the lovely clean snow falling.
A/N: Snow is such a pretty thing, for all the trouble it causes. I wasn't sure when Sweeney decided to take on his appealing little alias, so I decided to make it after he was rescued. It snowed last night, and I felt like it deserved a tribute. I wasn't sure if I would post it, as my last story was an obviously epic failure. But I did. :)
Disclaimer: The book is the Hugh Wheeler as the play/lyrics are to Stephen Sondheim as the movie is to Tim Burton. Savvy?