Understandably, a lot of people were both shocked and delighted by the appearance of Mr. Wonka – he had almost been reduced to merely an urban legend after so many years of being practically invisible.

The crowd couldn't help but stare wide-eyed at him, and the reporters all clamored for his attention. , thrusting microphones in his face. Cameras flashed in quick successions, like a lightning storm.

But through all this, Mr. Wonka himself kept very still and did not seem at all bothered. He had an air about him that did not all seem like someone who had just come out of recluse. There was quiet excitement in his elfin features, and his peculiar eyes sparkled.

I couldn't help but feel unsettled rather than sharing the excitement of the others around me. Like something about all this wasn't right.

Questions from the reporters started to buzz around him like hungry flies.

"Mr. Wonka! I'm from The Boston globe – any comment on why you decided to come out of hiding?"

"Will you give your approval on Cadbury's new line of chocolate? Do you think they've stolen or copied your recipes?"

"Is it true that you're 75 years old – what's your secret on staying healthy?"

"Mr. Wonka! Do you have anything to say about the confectionery industry at the moment? Something you'd like to share?"

Mr. Wonka didn't reply to any of these questions. Instead he raised a hand placatingly, eyeing everyone in a sharp way.

"All I can tell you for now is that I'm very excited about the future, and its many...possibilities. As for what I think…"

At this point he made certain to face the cameras filming him.

"I see you, and now you can see me. "


The gates opened slowly before us. Wonka walked ahead as they opened, and wordlessly us group of winners followed him.

I didn't turn around until I heard a loud metallic bang – the gates had shut much faster than they had taken to open.

The people closest to the gates and its tall surrounding fence had their arms stretched out towards us – acting like fans at a concert more than chocolate enthusiasts. It almost looked like they were pleading for us to come back.

"Come on now, don't dawdle!" Wonka called out over his shoulder, and with a last glance back to the crowd beyond the gates, I hastened to follow the rest of the group.


It was strange to think that nobody had been this close to the factory in a very long time. It didn't look its age either – the obsidian walls looked polished and new, sturdy. The tall chimneys were not stained with either soot or dirt.

The two double doors that acted as the entrance was heralded by wide stone steps, also obsidian in color. So far, no sign of any workers could be seen – not a left behind cigarette butt, or empty coffee cup could be seen.

It made me wonder what we would find inside.

The enormous doors opened automatically as we neared them – revealing a practically very ordinary lobby. Almost like one you'd find in a fancy hotel – pale marble floors It was a little anti-climatic, actually.

"Is this it?" Violet exclaimed, and we all turned to her. Even though it was a rude thing to say, it was what we all were thinking.

Meanwhile Wonka had walked ahead and went behind a long desk that faced the wall. He was twirling the cane lazily in one hand and smirked at Violet's remark. He grabbed a very thick book and placed it on the desk in front of him, opening it. For a moment one of his hands rested on the desk, and I couldn't help but notice that there was a slight tremor in it.

"What's that?" Veruca asked, her voice full of suspicion and contempt. Wonka cleared his throat politely and flexed the hand that had the tremor.

"Ah, I will need you all to sign this before we go any further with this special visit." he said, prompting Mike to scoff and frown.

"Sign it? What for?"

Mr. Wonka laughed – his voice was surprisingly deep – smooth. He threw out his hands pleasantly, approaching Mike to jauntily clap him on the shoulder. He stood a hefty foot taller than the other, and Mike was pretty tall to begin with.

"My dear man, as you may know, I am a man of secrecy. There are plenty of people out there who would just die to get their hands on my work – and if you're even slightly educated, you'd know that it has been tried many times before. This is just a security deposit, of sorts. I will just be loaning your name until you leave the grounds of the factory."

"Loaning it? Does that mean that it will belong to you while we're here?" I asked, and I was surprised at myself again, for speaking up so spontaneously. I usually didn't do that.

Mr. Wonka looked at me, and his gaze was curiously blank.

"Yes – yes and no. That's the beauty of it, you see. You will always be you, nothing can change that can it? "

"You're not making any sense." Violet complained and Mr. Wonka fixed her with an annoyed look.

"How about this for logic – sign the book and I will show you something beyond your wildest dreams. How about that?"

There was a silent pause between us - neither of us moving to put our name down in the book. Finally Wonka sighed dramatically and lolled his head around, being goofy.

"I can assure you – your names are perfectly safe in that little book. Nobody will look at them or touch them. "

With a calculated shrug, Veruca stepped forward briskly to the book. She looked around for something for a moment before turning to Mr. Wonka.

"Do you even have a pen?"

Wordlessly, he withdrew one from inside his coat – it was an inkwell pen with a bladed tip, and quite frankly looked more like a weapon than a simple writing tool.

Veruca took it from his hands and swiftly signed her name before holding out the pen to us.

"Come on then, what are we waiting for?"

After that, Augustus, Mike and Violet signed their names in the book – finally it was my turn. I took the pen and weighed it in my hand before I stepped forward to sign. As I touched the paper with the pen, something sharp caught my thumb and I gasped. I dropped the pen and withdrew my hand – there was now a small gash running the length of my thumb, the blood dripping down on the paper. I hissed as I clutched at the wound, and suddenly Mr. Wonka was at my side, a look of concern on his face – his strange violet eyes darkening at the sight of my bleeding digit.

"Oh no, what's this? That was not supposed to happen. " he said in a lower, soft voice. Without warning he took hold of my hand and with the other produced a white handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed it to the wound, then wound it around a couple of times tightly.

I blushed profusely and shook my head – embarrassed beyond words.

"No, I'm sure it was just me. It's nothing." I said, but Mr. Wonka wouldn't hear of it.

"Nonsense – do not worry, keep the handkerchief on until the bleeding stops. Now let's move on, now that everyone has signed their name."

I was about to open my mouth to protest, because that wasn't true. But then I realized that the others hadn't seen what had happened to my hand, and they had not seen wheter I had signed my name or not.

The only sign I had put down in the book was a few bright droplets of my blood.