Aren't There Butchers Enough?

vi.

Mrs. Lovett threaded her spidery fingers through her companion's hair. His eyes, sunken and dark and endless, never left her. She searched him in the dim of the candles, picking apart the fatigue written in the lines of his face. He had a face that she loved, like something someone had painted with their eyes closed and their heart split wide open, and he was afraid. Somewhere beneath the distinct sag of fatigue that stooped his creaking skeleton, she could see that he was frightened. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the hall was a shovel breaking dirt, a hole growing ever-deeper.

The door was pounding downstairs, rattling on its rusty hinges. They could hear it echoing through the house, the old wood standing bravely against the meaty fists that struck it with alarming urgency. Mr. Todd resisted the urge to lean out of her arms and look out the window. To look would be useless; both of them knew who awaited on their doorstep in the harsh moon glow.

"They're here," he rasped, the faintest quiver in his voice like a knife scraping gravel. Mrs. Lovett pulled his lips against hers once more, praying that he could not hear her heart splitting in her chest or taste the bile that rose in her throat and coated her tongue.