Veruca crossed her arms. "A tea room."

The statement made William freeze mid-twirl with one hand in the air. "That was my line."

She wasn't wrong, though. The chocolate and imagination rooms had been difficult to suss out, but this one was unmistakable. It was a warehouse-sized replica of a hole-in-the-wall tea house, complete with hand-painted walls, teal velvet chairs, and round tables in glossy magenta. A thick layer of branches hung from the ceiling to give the impression one was taking tea in a fantasy forest.

"Is that daylight?" I asked as I spotted several places where rays of light penetrated the branches and shone through artificial fog like sunbeams in clouds.

"LED lamps for seasonal affective disorder," William said. "They're scattered throughout the factory but aren't always as obvious as these. The SPD has no windows—for security purposes—and that can take a toll on mental health."

Mike made his way to a self-service bar topped with dozens of kettles and dispensers. "Security? Like, to prevent people peeking in? Who cares that much about candy?"

"This industry is riddled with corporate espionage," William swooped in front of Mike and held his cane out to stop him. "Anyone can eavesdrop on a conversation by aiming a laser microphone at a window to read the vibrations of sound waves."

He sounded as paranoid as Arthur. Perhaps that mindset was common among men who spent too much time imagining what could be and not enough experiencing what was. It certainly explained how Arthur went from business owner to monster hunter in a little over a decade. He must have been halfway there before his factory folded.

"So, what's special about the tea?" Veruca asked. She was the only person on earth who could look bored after someone un-ironically dropped the words laser microphone.

William lowered his cane and gestured at the kettle display, which included both electric and traditional models. "Each tea is sourced from a privately-owned farm that gives back to its local community. We never buy from large corporations with a history of human rights violations. This one is from Bangladesh. This one is from Japan—"

"Yeah, I'm not Violet," Veruca said. "What's the magic? What do the teas do?"

He shrugged. "They taste delicious and deliver caffeine? I'm a candy man, not a sommelier."

Mike pushed past him again and gripped the edge of the bar. "Is the magic in the squirts?"

William's nose wrinkled. "The what? Can I please..." He nudged Mike back from the bar with the end of his cane and cleared his throat. "Starting over. Welcome to the tea room! We have black tea, white tea, green tea, matcha, and herbal teas with cinnamon and cardamom. The dispensers to my left contain additives such as milk, honey, lemon, peppermint, ginger, maple, butterscotch, and inspiration!"

"Inspiration?" I examined the glass jars and pump-action dispensers, looking for one he hadn't called by name. "Is that what you call the sugar cubes?"

He beamed. "Inspiration cubes! Take one a day in your tea for the best thunks you can think!"

Veruca made a sound like a sick cat. "Thunks? What are we, five?"

"To me, yes. Fortunately, I'm in charge of the candy, not the marketing."

"Why's it got a warning label?" Mike asked.

"Because the formula in the cubes doesn't produce new ideas. It enhances your own. That means I have no control over the results. Speaking of which, I'll need you to sign a waiver stating you have no prior ideas so terrible their recurrence would harm you." William scowled at the bar. "Though, it appears someone has walked off with my pen. Have any of you got one on you?"

He patted down his jacket, then unbuttoned it and felt around the interior. I averted my eyes. Technically, I had a pen to offer—if I wanted to incriminate myself and further advance William's paranoia. That seemed ill-advised.

"Count me out, then," Veruca said. "I have more skeletons in my closet than shoes."

"I..." Mike began, then pulled a face like thinking too hard caused him physical pain. "I've been out of good ideas for my show for weeks."

"Try months," Veruca said with a snort.

"So, you're one of my subscribers?"

She didn't have a good response to that. William vaulted the half-height gate to the back of the bar and searched the place like he was trying to rob himself. When he reemerged, he held a ballpoint pen and a blank notebook.

A napkin holder beside the inspiration cubes held pre-printed waivers, and William passed one to Mike along with the pen and book.

"Sign here, please."

He folded the signed waiver into a star, tucked it into his interior pocket, and re-buttoned his jacket. Mike examined the options at the bar.

"I want to try matcha. With ginger and maple."

I imagined Augustus, wherever he was, would have had something to say about that choice, but William was indifferent. He filled a mug the size of a soup bowl with the frothing green mixture and lifted the glass lid from the jar of sugar cubes. With silver tongs, he selected a single cube and dropped it into Mike's mug.

"Careful. It's hot."

Mike tried to take the mug in both hands but fumbled with the pen and notebook. He set both against his stomach as if he might tuck them into the front of his trousers.

"Actually," William interrupted. "Veruca, if you aren't going to participate, could you pair off and jot down his inspiration? I've often found the process of translating thoughts to paper can dull my brightest ideas."

"Are you kidding me?" she whined but took the notebook and pen nonetheless.

Mike cupped the mug and led her to one of the tables. "This'll be fun!"

He slurped the tea, despite William's warning about the temperature, and grinned. Then his mouth formed a perfect o-shape.

"That worked fast!"

William's brow knit. "Too fast? Was it disconcerting? I can add a delay."

"No, this is great!" Mike slugged down another gulp and dropped into a chair. "Veruca! Write down hamster mazes!"

She settled into a chair beside him and opened the notebook with a huff. "Hamster mazes have been done."

"Yeah, but no. Simultaneous hamster mazes. Two of them. And the hamsters are in a race to the end. But viewers can say stuff in chat to change the mazes and confuse the hamsters! The winning team gets...I dunno. A badge or something."

"That's pretty good if you can pull it off." She scribbled something into the book. "What else?"

Mike launched into a long (and loud) series of plans for his show, and I once again took the opportunity to sideline William.

"Hey. You brushed me off before. When I asked about Violet."

His shoulders slumped, but he nodded. "You're right. And you deserve an explanation."

Careful not to draw attention, he led me to a table far from Mike's prattling where a three-foot tree trunk obscured their view. When he collapsed into his plush chair, the fake sunlight struck his gobstopper highlights and made them glow like a halo. Before I could even settle across from him, he launched into an unexpected apology.

"I admit what I did was wrong on many levels, and I'm sorry." He lowered his head, and it flung the rainbow halo back and forth like a shampoo commercial. "If I've given you the impression that your value to me as an engineer and creative is dependent upon my...attraction...I'll never forgive myself."

He wrung his hands atop the table, and I was pretty sure I was expected to say something reassuring in that pause, but the words refused to come forward. It felt like my lips had gone numb, and anything I attempted would be pure rubbish. Attraction? So, Violet was right? He was crushing on me? Holy heck!

He made eye contact, and it sent a wave of goosebumps down my arms.

"I understand if I've burned a bridge between us. And I swear I meant to do this the other way around. That is—I'd hoped to get to know you better and solidify our relationship one way or another before I offered you a partnership. But when you told me you wouldn't return, I panicked. I made a bad call."

"No," I said, surprising even myself. "You didn't. I'm glad you invited me. And I'm still interested."

His brows raised. "You are? Are…are you sure you could still work with me, knowing what you do now? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd be honored to have you on board no matter what, but—"

"I'm sure." I took a deep breath and felt a familiar prickle on my ears and cheeks. "And I feel the same."

Oh my god. That was the bravest thing I've ever done in my life. Future Charlie owed me a treat from the good shelves. None of that waxy stuff.

He blinked. "The same? Meaning you'd be happy to work together? Or..."

My whole face must have been red as a fireball for all the heat radiating from it.

"Yes. Both."

For a moment, he just stared at me. Not agape, but completely emotionless like his mind had blanked. It was nice to know I wasn't the only person on earth with that problem.

"Really!?" he finally coughed out. "Even after all this?"

"Especially after all this. I love the factory, even with its quirks. And the SPD. And the candy inventions. All of it."

Holy wow, who was speaking through my mouth? I sounded so smooth! But he slid his hands across the table and took mine in them, and my confidence melted like pocket chocolate. Back to classic Charlie, with the high-pitched whine of a bluescreened brain ringing in my ears.

"—some small complications, of course," he said, and I realized he must have been talking while I was self-congratulating. "But we don't need to discuss them right away, and I've made preparations to ensure the transition is as painless as possible."

Complications? What was he on about? God. How was my heart beating so hard, yet none of that blood was reaching my brain?

"—isn't safe for me to leave the factory for dates, but I can have anything you want brought in. Wait. I should have asked. Do couples still date? Or do you do everything on cell phones now?"

Couples? Was that what we were now? His thumbs ran tiny circles over my knuckles as he spoke, and I couldn't drag my mind from the sensation long enough to coherently answer his question.

"We, uh..." I stammered. "The apps are for meeting people."

Good enough. How were William's hands so cold and soft when mine were sweaty and chewed up from years of tinkering? Oh god. Did I have unattractive hands?

"We can stream video," he offered, and I pictured myself curled up on a couch with Willy-freaking-Wonka and a bowl of popcorn. "What's your favorite movie?"

Help. I've forgotten my favorite movie.

"It's—"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

William leapt from his chair so fast it toppled and struck the floor with a crash. I peeked around the tree just in time to see him dart for Mike's table.

"Keep his hands away from his face!" he screamed.

Before Veruca could react to the command, William looped his arms under Mike's armpits like he was performing a Heimlich maneuver and dragged the guy to the floor.

"Please," Mike begged as William pinned his wrists to the hardwood. "Not him! Please don't make me see his body like that again! Please! Stop it! Make it stop!"

"What happened?" I asked when I caught up.

Veruca shrugged. "He said something about strapping cameras to squirrels, and then he started screaming."

Mike howled. "I didn't know it was going to hurt him. I swear! I thought the parachute would work! I'm so sorry. Please! I'm so sorry!"

Parachute? What the heck?

"Someone grab his left arm," William said through gritted teeth. "I need a hand free."

"Yeah. Not happening," Veruca said.

I knelt to pin Mike's arm to the floor as William had. The guy was surprisingly strong for someone with no muscle tone. Perhaps it was adrenaline strength—if that was a real thing. He struggled to reach his head as if he could rip whatever he had imagined clean out of it through his skull.

"I want to go home!" he sobbed.

William pressed the button on what I was beginning to think of as an emergency response cane. "Bad reaction in the tea room," he told the person on the other end of the one-sided conversation. "Someone wasn't honest about his history."

It took a little longer than it had in the past, but the same two officers eventually burst into the room. Just in time, because Mike figured out he could kick his legs into the air to get us off his arms. William threw his weight over Mike's torso to compensate, and I was weirdly jealous that the annoying internet celebrity was physically closer to my new partner than I'd managed to get.

"He's got four or five hours to go before he's in the clear," William told the officers as they relieved us of Mike's thrashing arms.

As before, they had no problem holding their captive steady despite his wriggling. It was slightly less impressive than it had been with Augustus but unnerving nonetheless. William's lips drew into a thin line, and his hands shook with what I would have believed was rage if I hadn't been on the rollercoaster of emotions with him.

"Make sure he's good to drive before he leaves."

The tea room doors slammed shut behind the officers, cutting off Mike's apologies to whatever poor thing was attached to that parachute, and William's arms fell to his sides. He lifted his cane and inspected it for damage before he addressed us.

"I'd planned to show you a few more rooms. But I can think of only one that will interest Veruca, and this tour has taken a lot out of us." He checked her face for feedback, and the forced half-smile she gave cemented his decision. "So, let's tour that one and retire early. Sound good?"

Nobody argued.