Nellie Lovett: Feb. Picture Prompt (Gothic Church)
Title: St. Dunstan's Secrets
Fandom: Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Characters: Nellie Lovett and Sweeney Todd
Prompt: Gothic Church (picture)
Word Count: 847
Rating: PG-13
Summary/Notes: Using some the original details from the legend of Sweeney Todd from “String of Pearls”, Mrs. Lovett freaks out when officials start sniffing around St. Dunstan’s church. Literally.
"Mr. T!" Nellie Lovett pulled up her long petticoat a nearly immodest inch as she raced up the old wooden stairs that led up to Mr. Todd's Tonsorial Palour on Fleet Street. The stairs were slick with rain that made them especially treacherous for those with frail necks. They were so dilapidated that each time that her worn black boots pounded against them, they made a squishing sound as if they were soaked through like wheat pillows that were left in milk too long.
She burst through the door and only caught the glint of silver from the corner of her eye. It was enough to make her gasp and take an alarmed step back before she realised it was only Mr. Todd wiping off his beautiful blade, whose gleam shone even in the dull light from the gray smoke coughed up from thousands of chimneys. "Oh, Mr. Todd," she began with her hand draped lightly over her heaving bosom, "you gave me quite the fright." Breathing hard from her short run, she was about to plop down into his chair until she noticed the specks of blood on the seat.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Lovett?" His voice was distant as the damp euphoria of the kill still clung to him like London fog at dawn. Lovingly, he wiped the ruby coloured blood off of his friend. As Mrs. Lovett struggled to catch her breath, he walked over to his chair and wiped it down for her to sit in. He had manners, quite plenty from his previous life, though now they were masking sharp edges.
"Well, I was takin' me afternoon walk,” she began breathlessly, “an' I noticed some commotion at St. Dunstan's church not far from Temple Bar and where me olde shoppe was at Bell Yard." It was across the way on Fleet Street, the main thoroughfare where they were located. Mr. Todd looked none too concerned. Indeed, he wondered why she was bothering him with this at all. "Mr. T, they were talkin' about a fowl smell comin' from the crypts. T'was so bad that the new priest refused to 'old Sunday mass there!"
"What's that got to do with us?"
Mrs. Lovett paced around, the muddy wet ridges of her skirt swaying round and drawing chaotic circles on the floor. Mr. Todd, keen on blood but not mud, seized her shoulders and gestured toward the chair while walking her back to it. "Sit, love, sit." The long line of the razor lingered at the back of her throat.
"The beadle and the magistrate want to investigate the crypts! Both you an' I know where that'll lead 'im. Where do ya think that smell is comin' from? From 'ere! Them crypts lead right under the street and into the bake 'ouse. All they got to do is break down one molderin' door!" Getting up, she walked over to the window and peered out at the small church that was squashed in between two other buildings. An old beggar woman stood in front of it pointing to her shop and crying, "Witch! Witch!" What on earth was she going on about? The priest in the doorway shooed her away. Despite being newly rebuilt, the spirit of the old church still clung to its pores giving it a dusty London-gray look. It aged, much like Mrs. Lovett, not because of its years but because life has been unkind to it from years of heavy use. Yet, like Mrs. Lovett, its foundations were strong and no matter how many times they would tear it down, another St. Dunstan's would spring up for another century of servitude. The clock started to chime once the minute hand struck the hour. It was the first public clock in London which actually had a minute hand. Mrs. Lovett heard the bell toll. It made her nervous.
"When labour and when dullness, club in hand,
Like the two figures at St. Dunstan’s stand,
Beating alternately in measured time
The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme,
Exact and regular the sounds will be,
But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me."
Her voice had a distant morose quality to it as her pale lips drooped down in a frown like a wilted flower. "Is this it, then? Is our time up?" Mr. Todd took her by the arm and spun her around roughly to face him. "Not a chance, pet. I am not finished with what I came 'ere to do. That church will topple to the ages before they get to us."
Mrs. Lovett walked back to the door. "I hope that you are right because-"
The door to Mr. Todd's shoppe opened and who was to stand in the doorway then the same magistrate that wanted to search the crypts.
"Good day, Madame." Mrs. Lovett nodded in greeting. "Well...Sir, I shall leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Todd." Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it with her back and closed her eyes. "Thank God for that." She crossed herself and sighed out in relief. Perhaps St. Dunstan's foundations would indeed crumble before Mr. Todd and she did.
Fandom: Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Characters: Nellie Lovett and Sweeney Todd
Prompt: Gothic Church (picture)
Word Count: 847
Rating: PG-13
Summary/Notes: Using some the original details from the legend of Sweeney Todd from “String of Pearls”, Mrs. Lovett freaks out when officials start sniffing around St. Dunstan’s church. Literally.
"Mr. T!" Nellie Lovett pulled up her long petticoat a nearly immodest inch as she raced up the old wooden stairs that led up to Mr. Todd's Tonsorial Palour on Fleet Street. The stairs were slick with rain that made them especially treacherous for those with frail necks. They were so dilapidated that each time that her worn black boots pounded against them, they made a squishing sound as if they were soaked through like wheat pillows that were left in milk too long.
She burst through the door and only caught the glint of silver from the corner of her eye. It was enough to make her gasp and take an alarmed step back before she realised it was only Mr. Todd wiping off his beautiful blade, whose gleam shone even in the dull light from the gray smoke coughed up from thousands of chimneys. "Oh, Mr. Todd," she began with her hand draped lightly over her heaving bosom, "you gave me quite the fright." Breathing hard from her short run, she was about to plop down into his chair until she noticed the specks of blood on the seat.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Lovett?" His voice was distant as the damp euphoria of the kill still clung to him like London fog at dawn. Lovingly, he wiped the ruby coloured blood off of his friend. As Mrs. Lovett struggled to catch her breath, he walked over to his chair and wiped it down for her to sit in. He had manners, quite plenty from his previous life, though now they were masking sharp edges.
"Well, I was takin' me afternoon walk,” she began breathlessly, “an' I noticed some commotion at St. Dunstan's church not far from Temple Bar and where me olde shoppe was at Bell Yard." It was across the way on Fleet Street, the main thoroughfare where they were located. Mr. Todd looked none too concerned. Indeed, he wondered why she was bothering him with this at all. "Mr. T, they were talkin' about a fowl smell comin' from the crypts. T'was so bad that the new priest refused to 'old Sunday mass there!"
"What's that got to do with us?"
Mrs. Lovett paced around, the muddy wet ridges of her skirt swaying round and drawing chaotic circles on the floor. Mr. Todd, keen on blood but not mud, seized her shoulders and gestured toward the chair while walking her back to it. "Sit, love, sit." The long line of the razor lingered at the back of her throat.
"The beadle and the magistrate want to investigate the crypts! Both you an' I know where that'll lead 'im. Where do ya think that smell is comin' from? From 'ere! Them crypts lead right under the street and into the bake 'ouse. All they got to do is break down one molderin' door!" Getting up, she walked over to the window and peered out at the small church that was squashed in between two other buildings. An old beggar woman stood in front of it pointing to her shop and crying, "Witch! Witch!" What on earth was she going on about? The priest in the doorway shooed her away. Despite being newly rebuilt, the spirit of the old church still clung to its pores giving it a dusty London-gray look. It aged, much like Mrs. Lovett, not because of its years but because life has been unkind to it from years of heavy use. Yet, like Mrs. Lovett, its foundations were strong and no matter how many times they would tear it down, another St. Dunstan's would spring up for another century of servitude. The clock started to chime once the minute hand struck the hour. It was the first public clock in London which actually had a minute hand. Mrs. Lovett heard the bell toll. It made her nervous.
"When labour and when dullness, club in hand,
Like the two figures at St. Dunstan’s stand,
Beating alternately in measured time
The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme,
Exact and regular the sounds will be,
But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me."
Her voice had a distant morose quality to it as her pale lips drooped down in a frown like a wilted flower. "Is this it, then? Is our time up?" Mr. Todd took her by the arm and spun her around roughly to face him. "Not a chance, pet. I am not finished with what I came 'ere to do. That church will topple to the ages before they get to us."
Mrs. Lovett walked back to the door. "I hope that you are right because-"
The door to Mr. Todd's shoppe opened and who was to stand in the doorway then the same magistrate that wanted to search the crypts.
"Good day, Madame." Mrs. Lovett nodded in greeting. "Well...Sir, I shall leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Todd." Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it with her back and closed her eyes. "Thank God for that." She crossed herself and sighed out in relief. Perhaps St. Dunstan's foundations would indeed crumble before Mr. Todd and she did.