Here are responses to my lovely and un-lovely reviewers:
Mlle. Opera Ghost- thank you. I hope you find him the same in this chapter, dear...MERP IS AND SHALL FOREVER BE MINE!
Erik-Meister- my dearest Mary, if you don't like Willy, then...oh. I don't know what to say to you about that. But thank you! And yes, House is wonderful. Wonder if there's a category...anywho, Loompas will be corrected.
FOPkiller15- I don't care, Eric.
Two Bit's Twobit- Why, thank you, dear! Here you are!
Alright, my actual A/N:
This nice long chapter is to make up for my previous, sinfully short chapter. Note: big Oscar Wilde homage.
Disclaimer: (since I forgot it before) I don't own Willy. I want to, but I don't. The economy-size rope hasn't come in the mail yet. Emmanuelle, however is MINE. All MINE.
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I poke my head through the doorway to look in on my young discovery. The room in which I placed her, while not one of my personal favorites, is especially pretty; all spun sugar, marzipan, and black licorice. Her bed is draped with black and white gossamer threads, half concealing her from my view.
As I watch her, I realize that she can't be older than thirteen, though she gives an air of being almost fifteen. She seems also as if she belongs here, in this room, with her Victorian beauty and maturely-youthful charm.
She stirs as I look at her in silence. Waking, she sits up with an expression of deep thought. It is quickly replaced by one of horror as she touches her bruised cheek, and gingerly tips her face into her hands.
I walk in. in an attempt to cheer her a little, I announce brightly, "Good morning, Starshine! The earth says hello!"
"That's ridiculous," she mutters into her hands.
I don't have enough time to be offended, as she raises her head and stares at me, shocked at herself, and begins to spew forth apologies at an alarming rate. Eventually, she trails off, staring in wonder at me, and at the room.
A series of fascinating expressions follows. "This..." She trails off. "You...you look like Oscar Wilde," she says finally.
"Thank you!" I tell her cheerfully. "I really like him. His plays are the only ones-"
"That make any sense," she finishes. "I know. Isn't Lady Windermere's Fan just marvelous?"
I nod, smiling, but then, I'm not sure what to say. Apparently, she doesn't either, but she finally offers her hand. "Hi, I'm...my name is Emmanuelle."
A little bit embarrassed, I stare at the offered hand with no intention of returning the gesture. I don't like touching people (at this point I would pointedly cough, "Cooties!"), and I never have...ew.
"Uhh...okay," I say. "I'm Willy Wonka."
At first, Emmanuelle is shocked. Then her eyes light up, and I'm almost delighted to see an eight-year-old shining out of her too-mature eyes. "Really! Oh, you're exactly as I expected!"
"Ahh...that's great..." It's a pleasant change from the shocked and somber girl I had first seen, but...it seems so strange to think that someone is so happy to know who you are.
"I've read all about you," Emmanuelle continues. "all about you, and the factory, and how you shut it down eight years ago-good heavens, I was hardly five!-and the candy, too! I've never had any, but the conf-"
"Hold the phone," I interrupt. "You've never had any of my candy?"
"No, but I-"
"Slugworth's?"
"No, but you see-"
"Anyone's?" I demand.
She stares for a moment. "No."
I cough and lean heavily on my cane, staring. "You are so deprived, little girl."
Emmanuelle is indignant. "I am not little! In fact, I-"
"Believe you are more than usually tall for your age?" I supply sarcastically.
"No! Well, yes, that too, but I was raised in a very controlled atmosphere," she explains.
"Really."
"You have no idea," she mutters.
I might, I think, but I remain silent. She's silent, too, inspecting the ink, graphite, and charcoal stains on her fingertips.
"Do you fingerpaint?" I ask at last, determined to break the silence.
"No. I sketch," she says evasively.
"Oh. What do you sketch?"
"Things I see...people I see...things I wish I see." The last part is so quiet, I can hardly hear it.
"Oh. That's nice. So how did you end up at my front door with a big bruise on your face?" I ask.
"I was...I was running, from someone, and I just kept moving forward, and, next thing I know, I'm hitting the door, and now I'm here."
"That's all?" I ask.
"No, but I don't want to tell you the rest," she tells me stubbornly.
"Why not?" I demand.
"I don't think I trust you yet. I don't even know where I am."
"Not trusting me and not thinking you trust me are two entirely different things," I tell her sagely.
She glares, and I see a side of her that is much different from the profusely-apologizing girl or the gleeful fan.
After a pause, I say, "I'll go, then."
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I glared after him as he left. I didn't have any right to, as I knew he would possess a sort of contrariness, but I did anyway. It didn't really matter, but I hated it when the fact that I liked to sketch was so easily brushed aside. I clung to the idea that my art was a reflection of myself, and I was no fly to swat away.
However, I also like to over analyze. After a moment, my anger subsided into regret, and I slid down from the bed to pray for forgiveness. I didn't even want to try the door, for fear that Wonka might be standing there, waiting for me to give in.
I had never been anything but faithful to God, but I had always been rather resolute. You had to be, to be Catholic, considering all of the contradictions and hypocrisies that people had found and pointed out.
While I prayed, kneeling beside the bed, I didn't notice a small someone opening the door and walking over to gently tug at my sleeve.
I turned. "Good heavens!" I cried.
The person standing next to me couldn't have been more than three feet tall. He was wearing a rather peculiar suit, and holding out a letter.
I took the letter, my brow furrowed, and opened it.
Dear Guest,
I hope you are enjoying your stay at my factory, even though you haven't been awake very long. I would like to request that you have dinner with me tonight around five o'clock. Don't wear your uniform. The Oompa Loompa (his name is Ernest) will find you a suitable outfit.
Your host,
Willy Wonka
I glared at the letter for a moment, until the Oompa Loompa –I remembered his name was Ernest shuffled his feet a little.
"Does he honestly expect me to dine with him?" I asked the little person, suddenly feeling as though I'd fallen into some fairy tale or another.
The diminutive man paused for a moment, and then nodded. I sighed. "Well, dress me in whatever you'd like. I really don't care."
He grinned and raced off to the door. After a few moments, he returned to the door and beckoned for me to follow him. k
A/N: Aahh...the irony of being earnest...ahem. not really, but you get the idea.