That was a lie, of course. Though he'd bought it, The Boy couldn't stand this lot any more than he could. That was another chuckle. That The Boy had bothered to buy it. Did he honestly think I would ever sell it? To anyone? Other than him? What a fool! But the roller-coaster of glee stopped there. Doubt descended; a dryness grew in Dr. Wonka's throat, a fleeting twist in his gut. As he put himself in motion, the corner of his mouth twisted with regret.

Dr. Wonka hadn't wanted to sell; selling had never been the plan. For years, the not selling had been a bouncing source of joy. Because The Boy wanted it… oh, yes, The Boy surely wanted it. And had, from almost the moment he re-appeared in town. Dr. Wonka's hands found their way out of his pockets, to rub themselves together. It had been such a warming pleasure, thwarting The Boy in his desire. But it didn't warm him now, and his hands soon retreated.

A real estate agent, acting on behalf of some nonsense called Onward! Acquisitions approached him, and made him an offer. It happened shortly after that pedestrian shop on Cherry Street opened. It was a fair offer. Not too high, not too low; an offer Dr. Wonka graciously took under advisement. An offer he throughly investigated. It wouldn't do not to know who wanted to mess about in this lot; dear, no, that wouldn't do at all! It surprised him the holding company led to his son, but only slightly, and only because Willy had come sniffing around for a co-signer he claimed he needed, before he could lease that shop to house and sell his cavity causing monstrosities. As they had then, Dr. Wonka's eyes narrowed. He hadn't signed. More's the pity, because either that shop had really taken off, or The Boy had set him a little test. And if a little test, it was a test Dr. Wonka had failed to take advantage of, and that—the taste in his mouth was bitter—meant he'd failed it. Because if The Boy had the cash or credit to make that offer, he hadn't needed a co-signer on that lease.

Shaking his head, the soft scrunch of snow sounded beneath Dr. Wonka's feet. For old times' sake, he'd use the back door to play out this dreary charade. What did it matter that the door existed only in his mind? He'd resided in his townhouse for all his life, even if, for all his life, his townhouse hadn't always resided where it had started out. Dr. Wonka had the floor plan of his humble dwelling memorized to the level of his cells.

Arriving at the spot where the door would be, Dr. Wonka stepped beyond it. And stopped. The sounds at his feet were all wrong. The scrunching was gone, replaced by scraping. There should be no scraping going on here. He had ripped out the bricks that made the landing when he ripped out the house. Forgetting his thoughts, his steely eyes snap to the ground. It's a stone. A flat, polished stone; polished not to a shine, but only to smoothness.

Its twisted shape calls forth a sneer. It's that asinine curly-cue! The stone is coiled like the start of the Yellow Brick Road, with the coil ending in an arm extending outward. Come this way it says… come this way. Dr. Wonka can hear the whisper. He lifts his head, and sees another: it's not joined to the first, but very near it, the earth between them part of the connection. This rock hasn't the curly-cue, it's an arm, extending at an angle, pointing the way. A third joins, the 'V' becomes a zig-zag. A fourth adds another zig, and extends into a flourish, like an arm outstretched, offering its palm. The pattern repeats. Head bobbing to and fro, his feet tracing its braille meaning, Dr. Wonka's lips curl back. It's his son's two iconic 'W's, the design over the factory gates—the 'W's that turn the name Wonka into a joke—modified to beckon.

Out of sheer orneriness, Dr. Wonka considers, for a moment, spitting on the invitation. With an effort, he refrains. His curiosity is piqued. From where he stands, at the edge of the foundation grade, the land slopes gently away, before it levels again. He can see there are more of these stones; a lot more. And they are not 'W's. They are something else. Something with curves and scallops, something that becomes more and more dense as the part of the garden that Mina reserved for growing flowers and vegetables is approached.

Dr. Wonka approaches. Once he has left the rise of the foundation, the pattern all but disappears in the level ground. No matter. He is standing where Mina's flower beds once lay. The memory is a fond one, and his face is gentle. It was the flowers that had accomplished the goal: the goal of persuading her to marry him. Her loss of them, that is. A smile plays around his lips. Not these flowers, but the flowers involved with her job. The flowers involved in her designs. The flowers and shop he'd used his societal connections to make the flowers and shop used at the town's most notable galas, charitable or otherwise; the flowers used at the town's most notable marriages, and funerals. The flowers, once all her shop's business was dependent on the clients he had steered their way, he had made sure—once their trust in him was unshakable—were poisoned. A little something, added to the water, just before the start of the event. By the end of the event—or if done right, much sooner—every creation a wilted ruin, ruining the affair. It ruined the shop she worked for; it ruined their reputations: Inferior quality. So sad, the shop closed. So sad, Mina was without a job. No one would hire her. No one would hire any of them.

So much for phase one. For phase two, the tricky part had been the timing. Dr. Wonka had told everyone working at the shop they could count on him as a reference. It wasn't his fault they hadn't asked if the reference were a good one. He made sure, with each inquiry, it wasn't. And with each inquiry, he'd check on Mina. The day had come, and Dr. Wonka remembered it fondly. Tipping his hat as she opened the door to her mean little flat, his polite smile and solicitous words were met with a quivering lip, and moist eyes.

Her words trembled, and the tears fell. "I do not understand." In her embarrassment, she buried her face in her hands, the sobs becoming harder to deny. "I can find nothing. My money is gone. I shall be turned out."

"There, there, my dear," he cooed soothingly, as taking her elbow he led her to the sofa. "Sit down, my dear, it's not as bad as all that." He glanced at her tiny, but spotless, kitchen. "Can I get you some tea? Some coffee?"

Minty shook her head, not daring to speak. He sat beside her. They had become good friends in the intervening months. He had found where she worked, ordering flowers for his practice. At first she had been skeptical, there was something about him, but he treated everyone at the shop exactly the same, and was unfailingly polite. The others adored Dr. Wonka, he was so dashing and well-connected, and she had learned to relax around him.

Claiming his patients loved the change the flowers made, he became a regular. When he brought the town's society business their way, they had all been grateful. When one day, he asked if she'd accompany him to one of the galas as his escort—he'd be ever so grateful if she did, he had no one, and it would give her a chance to enjoy her arrangements as well as plan them—it hadn't been as much of a stretch as she'd thought it would be to accept. She'd always wondered what these things were like.

Nervous at her first attendance, Dr. Wonka, always the perfect gentleman, had taken pains to make her feel at home in this glittering world. And Minty did feel at home. This was the world her arrangements were made for. Naturally, she knew it. She was often behind the scenes here; what was different was being out front. Turning down Dr. Wonka's offer to provide them, her clothes were her own. She was skilled at finding finds in second-hand stores; skilled at combining the dated into something avant-garde, and what Araminta chose to wear was unique, but always stunning on her. She felt like a princess, and with her dark hair, pale skin, and ruby lips, she looked like one: from a kingdom other than this one.

The beauty and spectacle that surrounded her enchanted her, and she enchanted those who met her. As she feared might happen, with knowing smiles, couples nodded to Dr. Wonka, and then to her, but Dr. Wonka always addressed her as Miss Walters, carefully keeping his distance, and leaving no doubt between them that these were not dates. As she attended others, it was always the same, and Minty soon relaxed about that as well. One night, after almost a year, at one of the more memorable events, her hand resting on Dr. Wonka's arm as he led her to the dance floor, she surprised herself by feeling a pang of regret, as she listened to him explain this fact to another couple—who wouldn't let it go—that this was still so.

And now here he was, when everyone else had deserted her—blamed her—here Wilbur still was, at her side. She'd begun to call him that, though he still called her Miss Walters, if he wasn't using 'my dear'. She didn't understand that, they knew each other so well now, but it didn't matter. What mattered was he was here. She sank against his chest, choking back a sob. He lifted his arm, gliding it around her back, resting his hand upon her shoulders, his other arm burrowing between her waist and the sofa back, to rest below the first. The feeling of security she felt being enfolded by his warmth was more than she could bear, and the sobs came freely now. He rocked her gently, saying nothing, his face, that he knew she couldn't see, a mask. When the sobbing slowed, he pulled gently back, swapping the mask for another expression. He waited until she looked up.

"Oh, Wilbur, I do not know why you are hopeful, when I feel none," Minty said. "Of what is there to be hopeful? It has all come down. Where will I go? What will I do? I have started over so many times. I do not know if I can do it again."

"Of course you can," said Dr. Wonka, stroking the hair at her temple with the back of his fingers. "Start again with me."

"With you?" Minty pulled away, but only enough to see him better. "I do not understand."

Dr. Wonka hung his head, looking away, but keeping hold of her.

"I know I'm much older than you are, I shouldn't ask, but I'm all alone, and you're alone, and we get on so well, maybe we can be alone together." He met her eyes. "I'm asking you to marry me. Will you?"

With a gasp, Minty pulled back. He let her go, but otherwise didn't move. Moving would scare the game.

"You don't have to answer. I'll go." He was careful not to move.

"No, please don't, you take me by surprise."

Minty wiped the tears from her eyes. Dr. Wonka handed her his handkerchief, and she blew her nose.

"You call me only Miss Walters. How can one marry in such formality?"

Dr. Wonka turned to face her, taking the handkerchief, and putting it aside. He took her hands in his.

"I'd like to call you Mina. Would you like that?" He searched her eyes. "It's what your Grandmother calls you, without the 't'. And it sounds like a nickname for Wilhelmina, which is like my name, Wilbur. It will bring us closer."

She laughed. It was such an odd explanation; almost all about him. She thought about it. Rolled the word around on her tongue.

"Mina."

It didn't sound bad. It had a ring to it. She looked at him hopefully, and just as quickly, her face fell. She squeezed his fingers, and made to drop his hands. Dr. Wonka held on, squeezing hers back, keeping some of the pressure on, even as he let up. It wouldn't do to let the game go. Not when it was almost caught.

"What is it?"

"I have known many men in my life, but there is something wrong with me. When they find out, they leave me, for someone else. If you want to marry, you will, too."

Shaking the memory from of his head, Dr. Wonka recoiled at what he knew would come next, the terrible secret that wouldn't leave him today, and kicking at the mocking stones under his feet that underscored the lie of it, he wondered if it wasn't The Boy's pull effecting him today, but Mina's. Mina, now that she'd lured him this close, pulling him towards her, filling his head with these memories, laughing at him at the last. If that were so, he wouldn't resist. He didn't want to resist. He surrendered himself to relive the last of his proposal. He owed it to her.

"Many?" Dr. Wonka's surprise was genuine. "I've never seen you with anyone else."

"It is tiring to be the plaything. I gave that up, and not being able to do the other, it makes me alone."

Did this revelation change anything? Dr. Wonka's brain went into high gear. No, she may have had 'many', but none of them were in this town. The people here would never be the wiser, no stigma there, and if they married, he had no plans to touch her. No problem there, either. He dropped her hands and encircled her in a brief, tender hug, taking her hands again when he leaned away. Letting her settle for a moment—she had looked away—he placed a bent finger under her chin, bringing her focus back to him.

"What is this terrible secret?"

He could see it hurt her to tell him, but if he waited, she would.

"I can never have children."

Before he could stop himself, a manic laugh filled the room. She looked wild-eyed, and Dr. Wonka knew he had to stop. Talking would do it.

"I don't WANT children! We're perfect for each other!" Dr. Wonka slipped off the couch and unto one knee, one of her hands still in his. "Will you marry me?"

She stared at him. He was serious. Her inclination was to say no. Yes, they'd grown close, yes, she'd begun to think of the two of them as a couple—they were out so often together—but he was so much older, and there was something about him, something under the surface, that was easily avoided if she didn't reach for it. But it was there all the same, and what if someday, it reached for her? The hairs on the back of Minty's neck prickled, and she thought about that. But then she thought about her situation, and the past, and the present… and the future with this man didn't seem so awful. Not compared with the fear she felt, not knowing what would become of her, otherwise. Wilbur was handsome, and well-connected, and well-off, and well, she was getting older herself. It was time to settle. So she looked into his eyes, and hesitated.

"I'm too old to be in a position like this for long," said Dr. Wonka, smiling. "Please don't make me beg."

Araminta looked into the imploring face looking up at her. He hadn't said a word about loving her. Not one. But he did need her. He'd made that plain over the last few months, asking her opinion about every little thing, and taking her advice on most of it. And he could afford to take care of her. It wouldn't be so bad. With reservation, she looked into his eyes and said, "Yes."

Thank you reviewers, those who favorite, followers, and readers. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Squirrela: Thanks for your review, it's wonderful to read, particularly your last paragraph. I think you may be on to something. Link-et: Thanks for reviewing, you bring up some interesting thoughts. RevolutionRoulette: You also bring up some interesting points to ponder, and one of your points is the manipulation involved. I think that word is Dr. Wonka's middle name. Thank you for your review. dionne dance: Thank you for the two reviews. Stopping by the Woods On a Snowy Evening has always been one of my favorites, too.

Thanks everyone!