Life was simple if you knew its tricks; or his choice: you stayed out of its way. The Factory beckoned, but only by proxy. All Willy could see of it, hovering inches above the deck of pancake clouds in the Great Glass Elevator, racy version, as he was, was the plume of steam rising from its center stack. Machines needed cooling, and that tower was it. Like a fountain's spray, the condensation punched through the layer, rising high above it.

It was time to go back, Libby sufficiently seen, but perhaps this second wasn't that second … the second to make that so. Here, now, the sunshine raining down on his body felt like a glorious catharsis. The whiteness of the clouds, the jewel of the sky's blue above them, glittered in stark contrast to the dreary grey suffered by those trapped below. As rapturous as Willy felt, it very nearly hurt him to look at the one, or think of the other.


Before he took off in his gizmo, Willy had shooed him away; almost, in fact, clear back to the street, and that, Dr. Grant thought, was just as well. Even upon the set-in stones as the flying glass elevator sat, once those rockets kicked up, the dust, and dirt, and every other what-all, flew everywhere.

Remarkably quiet though, Dr. Grant allowed, as, the contraption gone, he picked his way the rest of the way to the sidewalk. He hadn't realized Willy had more than one of those thingamabobs, or that he had one that small. It was hardly bigger than a telephone box, really. And dear me, mused Dr. Grant, his chin on his chest, that doggone blind spot Willy designed in the system! How often does he come here? I'd never be the wiser.

Reaching the sidewalk, his chin still tucked, Dr. Grant looked back, absent-mindedly tapping his walking-stick on the pavement, eyes hooded in contemplation. The noise of the thing amounted to little. It was a residential neighborhood. This time of day, most everyone living on the block was at work. 'Cept for the occasional old-fogy, like me, he chuckled to himself. No surprise then, it was a smart time of day for a smart cookie like Willy to drop by. And while we're on the subject of smart, how 'bout all those set-in stones? Didn't they just make a nifty landing pad! Did that solve the mystery?

Today, seeing the Lot he thought he knew anew, Dr. Grant noticed that not all the stones were of the same color. Here and there, a few were different: lighter or darker. Odd, when that happened, they tucked up tight to their neighboring stone. Humph. That detail aside, it was where the blind spot sat that intrigued him most. In a transparent, climate-controlled, quick-getaway equipped refuge such as that elevator afforded, it was a cracking good spot to contemplate the smooth, unadorned stone that seemed the heart of the design.

For not the first time, knowing he didn't have all the pieces, Dr. Grant felt the opportunity to feel left out. But not today … today he had all the proof he needed to know he was a fool if he did. There might be more to know about Willy, but whatever it was, it mattered as little as the noise of the elevator. The warmth Libby felt from the visit, on this chilly afternoon in February, was like a gentle summer sun, suffusing him still.

Contemplating the whole, Dr. Grant, with not a care in the world, squared his shoulders, swung his walking-stick, and turned toward his opaque-except-for-the-windows, climate-controlled, not-going-anywhere, snug little home, a smile tracing his lips, his tuneless humming filling his ears. Willy's secrets were best left to Willy.


Throwing his head back, Willy unfurled his right arm and gloved hand, extending them above his head to their full extension, sighting along the length of his arm as he did so. When he thought he might touch the sky with his fingertips, he rolled his wrist, flexing his fingers with the finesse of a magician. He finished his little ceremony with three fingers curled against his palm, his thumb a counter-balance, his index finger poised to select a button. Libby had talked about space.


Terence felt like a juggler. He couldn't remember a mission in his career as fraught with unseen snags as this simple task of moving a shack into a candy factory was turning out to have. But then again, Terence had always worked alone, and he could appreciate that was Willy's modus operandi, too. It was all the players involved complicating this mess.

Terence shook his head as he climbed into his friend's truck, backing it out of its nose-in parking spot near the Factory's steps. How clever of that weasel Willy, not wanting to play the players' mind games, to palm this duty off on him. Terence threw the truck's transmission into drive, and turned the wheel. That wasn't fair. That was frustration, rearing its ugly head. It might be playing his own mind games Willy was trying to avoid.

Eshle had handed him a diagram showing him where to park the vehicles while he and Nora went to pick up Charlie, mumbling an explanation about CCTV cameras, something about hacking, and strategic angles. Terence took it, knowing he'd do it, but he was too polite to tell Eshle that wouldn't suffice. If the town owned the cameras, the town could turn the cameras off. He'd asked for a phone—by God, the Factory did have one—and made a call. As late in the day as it was getting, getting what he wanted shouldn't be a problem.

It wasn't.

That solved, Terence followed Nora's truck down the hill, wondering. If an Oompa-Loompa tells you the boss is at home, but won't look you in the eye while he says it, in fact, stares a hole into the carpet instead, is the boss really at home?


"Sweetheart!" Nora hopped from her truck, and threw her arms around her husband's neck. "What are you doing here?"

"A mysterious phone call, from a mysterious Factory, released me from my bondage to another factory, early," was Noah's laughing reply, as he returned Nora's hug, his arm around her waist. He turned as Terence walked up. "Thanks, Terence."

"Don't mention it." Terence handed him the diagram. "Park the trucks according to this, and watch the loading. It shouldn't take us long to get back."

"Sure," nodded Noah. Terence's truck was already in position, but Nora hadn't seen the plan. Noah hopped in her truck, as his wife and Terence walked off.


It wasn't long after that, that the limo pulled up, all black, and shiny. It wasn't a stretch limo, nothing really fancy, but it was a limo, luxurious and dark, its tinted windows privacy's guardian. Noah noticed it right away, it was hard to miss, joining the knot of the curious on the side street across the dump as it did, and he watched it, watching them.

The crates went into the trucks, and the limo sat. Noah, consumed with the first, almost forgot about the last, save for a peculiar trend. The knot of the curious, its numbers growing and shrinking as their lives let them pause for a moment, or called them away, had quietly flowed like a starfish over sand, away from the limo; as if they thought the tide was going out, with the way to safety away from that car. It was weird.

Soon enough, Noah spied Nora and Terence returning, Charlie skipping at their side, and felt relief.


It was worse than he had imagined: far worse. Dr. Wonka had been watching from the comfort of his limo for a while. At first glance the operation seemed like just another of his son's idiot schemes. The house being moved was a wreck, the people moving it were too young to know what they were doing, and the scarecrow monitoring the fiasco looked like he hadn't the energy to blow his nose. Coming here had been—no shocker when his son was involved—a waste of his time.

Until, that is, he saw Terry, returning down the hill. They were far away, and the tint of the window made it hard to see, but with him was Mina, with The Boy, skipping by her side. The tears that sprang to his eyes made his vision worse, but there she was, slim, dark curls dancing on strong, if delicate shoulders, her head bent, swinging her arm to and fro, as she held her laughing son's hand, and he, hers. It was too much. Dr. Wonka felt his stomach twist, bile climbing to the back of his throat. His hands were fists, his breathing ragged. Escaping, he darted away from the window, his torso falling to the cool embrace of the upholstery on the far side of the limo.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Yes," Dr. Wonka managed to gasp out, in a raspy voice, mortified. "Mind your own business, or I'll report you to your superiors."

The driver, his concern evaporating, turned his eyes away from the rearview mirror, and back to the car's bonnet. So choke on it, ya old fart.

The interruption was enough. Dr. Wonka put the back of his hand to the corner of his eyes, the moisture he found there humiliating. Of course it wasn't Mina … Mina was … older than this woman, much older. And it obviously wasn't The Boy. He'd stopped being a boy decades ago.

With wrinkled palms as dry and cool as the leather beneath him, Dr. Wonka pushed himself upright, sliding back over to the window. Cracking it, he peered out.

"How long has that been there?" asked Terence, not facing the limo, but indicating it with a flick of his eyes. They were the first words out of his mouth.

Noah didn't need the flick to know what Terence meant. "Showed up a little after you left. Do you think it's Willy?"

"No," Terence bit off. "Not his style." He dropped to a squat. "Charlie, why don't you and your Mum get on back to the Factory?" He looked up. "One of the trucks is loaded?"

"Both," answered Noah.

"Then both of you get going. Wait for me. I'll meet you up there."

Terence turned on his heel, and headed for the car.

Dr. Wonka shot back in the seat. These other people might not know who he was, but Terry did. This was no place to be seen lurking.

"Driver!"

The bark of alarm in the old fart's voice had the driver's immediate attention. "Yeess, ssiirrr," he drawled, as slowly as he could, to his client's distress, and his delight.

"Drive!"

"Of course, sir. Drive, sir. Where to, sir?" Still speaking slowly, he hadn't moved a muscle.

"I don't care where, just drive, and do it now, before that ruffian accosts this vehicle!"

Ruffian? Accosts? Hell, this vehicle? The driver put the car into gear, pulling away from the curb by inches, accelerating just enough to leave the alleged ruffian behind. For all his client's jitters, the guy looked harmless enough. With a derisive smirk lighting his face, the driver replayed the words. Just how old do you gotta be, to talk like that?

Terence watched the car pull away, frowning. The last thing he needed was another player, but this one, it was plain, had money. That narrowed the field, but without giving him any real answers. Currents were at work he needed to fathom. The uncertainty was making him edgy.

On the plus side, Willy had seen fit to spill the other spies' names, and Prodnose and Slugworth were two possible players with money. The first thing Terence had done when he'd shown George his shop this morning was google the two. They'd joined forces, and had their own candy factory. Was it them? One of them? Limos would be no stretch for either. Holy shit. The pun made him groan.

Trotting back across the dump, Terence rethought the juggling. It wasn't juggling. It was keeping plates spinning on sticks, and it was time to put the spin back on another one, before it toppled. Terence filled the supervising professor in on the planned all-nighter.

"D'you think anyone will stay? I'll pay cash to anyone who does."

The professor grinned. "How much?"

"Three hundred." Terence had no idea what arrangements the professor had made with his people, but the number sounded tempting to him.

"They'll be calling their friends."

"Just so they're not tripping over each other."

"I'll see they're not."

Terence nodded. "With luck, I'll be right back. If not, take your cues from the Buckets. They'll be working with you until I get back."

The professor nodded his understanding, and Terence jogged up the hill to the Factory.


You never knew about these gates. Before he cracked his wrist for a second time, Terence put the brakes on. No worries though: the small gate opened like sugar melting. Terence hadn't needed to see what he hoped had happened when the Buckets arrived back at the Factory with Charlie, but he needed to know that it had.

It hadn't.

The fallout was Charlie was off in the suite with his grandparents, doing his homework; his mother was fidgeting, its manifestation a waterless hand-washing routine; and his father, sanguine, not knowing the half of it, was keeping his view that everyone around him needed to take a deep breath, and chill, to himself.

With another plate about to topple, Terence lost no time organizing the light situation with Eshle and the mid-generation Buckets. That done, he then lost no time sending said parents on their way.

That left him in the grand, grey entrance hall, with its wide, red carpet, alone with Eshle. This situation had been sticky before. It would be sticky now. Terence dropped to the carpet and crossed his legs, his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled. He could feel the resistance.

"We gotta stop meeting like this, Eshle."

Eshle grinned, but stood straighter. Today was the first day since the move-in Willy hadn't made an appearance when Charlie returned from school. Eshle had no intention of answering what was coming next.

"Where's Mr. Wonka?"

Yup. That was the question, and Eshle wasn't gonna answer. If Willy didn't want finding, it was best not to find Willy. Terence, of all people, should know that.

Resistance, all right. His fingers still steepled, Terence re-grouped. He spent a minute or two studying the circles of light on the wall formed by the round, clerestory windows. They were a rude kind of clock, their height on the wall affected by the angle of the light filtering through them: sun high, circles lower; sun low, circles higher. The circles were like little suns themselves, their orbits moving light paintings, splashed upon the wall. As high as they were, it was getting late. Eshle seemed not to mind.

In the interval, Terence noticed the scents of the Factory, drifting on the air. He picked out lavender, and found it calming. It was a big Factory, and Willy could be anywhere. He might be nowhere. Terence tilted his head to look up at Eshle, and spoke very slowly.

"Do you know where Willy is? Or don't you?"

The corner of Eshle's eye twitched. A muscle in his jaw clenched. But that was all.

Terence looked away. Eshle knew. The loyalty was as admirable as it was misplaced.

Sighing, Terence swept a hand toward the carpet that was prickling at his ankles.

"Would you care to join me?"

Eshle could do that. Being contrary was making him feel not himself, as if the air around him were losing its oxygen, making normal breathing insufficient, or as if his heart were weakening, his circulation losing traction. He sat down.

"Thank you." Blue eyes sought brown. "We've been here before, Eshle. I know you have your doubts, but let's work together."

Eshle stared past him, his eyes on a spot down the hall.

Terence thought about the bench he and Charlie had spent so much time on before Willy issued his invitation to the Bucket family. The man could disappear for days … weeks.

"You know all about last night. He was concerned this morning. Nora said he left the Chocolate Room abruptly. Now he's not here to see Charlie back safe. Doesn't any of this bother you?"

"He trusts you to see Charlie safe."

"You said it. He trusts me. So you trust me, and tell me where he is. You've known him longer, but I knew him earlier. He'd been through so much less then. He can pretend he's still like that when I'm around. That the world is still like that. I think that helps."

The circles of light on the wall moved a micrometer in the stillness. Terence tried again, a new note in his voice.

"This is no time for Willy to disappear for a week or two."

A small hand fell on his shoulder.

"We think he's in his room," Doris said.

Eshle shoulders collapsed with relief. It hadn't been him to snitch, but he'd known Terence was right. Who else had Willy told them had run of the Factory? No one. It was only a technicality that Terence didn't know it, yet. But no one was excepted from this exception.

"Aren't you the quiet one. That doesn't tell me much," observed Terence, twisting where he sat. "They're all his rooms."

The Oompa-Loompas giggled, Doris taking a seat.

"Yeah, but we mean his room. You can't go there," Eshle said.

"That's true," confirmed Doris. "No one can."

"Why not?"

"It's a rule. About the only rule there is," said Eshle.

"The others change too much to be rules," explained Doris.

"What if the Factory were about to explode? Wouldn't he want you to warn him?"

"He said if he's in his room, and the Factory is about to explode, we should leave our carry-ons, proceed to the nearest exit, which may be behind us, and run for our lives."

Terence giggled.

"What if he gets sick?"

"Then he'll get better without our help." Eshle was adamant.

Terence thought it was all idiotic, but these questions were fun.

"What if he dies?"

Doris caught the sly mocking in Terence's tone, laughing a little as she answered.

"He said if he dies up there, we should wait until three weeks after the smell disappears, and then, and only then, we can go up and check."

'Up there', Doris had said. It was somewhere high in the Factory. Terence grinned.

"Where would I be to catch the smell?"

Everyone giggled, but the Oompa-Loompas didn't answer. They were serious he respect the rule, and Terence could understand that. Everyone needed some privacy, and Willy would be one to take that to the nth degree.

Terence gave in. "I'll respect the rule, but I'm getting him outta there. He has a house to move, and I'm not doing it alone. Where would I go?"

"It's above his office," they chimed in unison.

"Then Heigh-ho," grinned Terence. "It's off to work I go."


Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, reviewers: dionne dance, Ifwecansparkle, LinkWonka88. I'd like also to thank you, what with my glacial update schedule, for sticking with me. Lately, my best intentions come to naught, I'm afraid. I quite enjoyed writing the last chapter, the more so because I never expected to write a scene with Willy and Libby in the same room. I hope y'all enjoy this chapter.

To shed some light on the random Airplane! reference: Airplane! is an amazingly funny spoof of aviation disaster movies. For a low-brow movie, I recommend it highly. One of its running jokes is a play on the same sounding word 'surely', and name, 'Shirley', like so:
"Surely, you can't mean that!"
"I do mean that, and don't call me Shirley."