Terence was grateful he was sitting down, and silently thanked Willy for the solid nature of the provided desk. Talking about your past was no big deal, people did it all the time, but this was Willy Wonka, and he never did.

"Araminta," Terence said, absorbing the disclosure, while swallowing the shock. "An unusual name."

Willy's look was wry.

"The apple. I was off to a good start—"

"The apple?"

The question met with a testy shake of Willy's head, followed closely by a billowing of his hands and arms.

"As in the tree, dear chap… the tree."

Terence was doing his best pretending-not-to-be-gobsmacked routine, and his brain, Willy surmised, wasn't in as high a gear as it usually was. Feeling an odd, bouncy sensation blossoming that he thought he should resist, Willy sat on a sigh, and then a giggle. His own struggle over, the sight of Terence's struggle was somehow riotously funny. But aside from Willy's attempted clarifying gesture—which he could see wasn't clarifying at all—Willy kept his enjoyment to himself.

"As in, unusual, apple, falling, not-far-from… you get it. Catch up," said Willy, mildly. "Or perhaps I flatter myself. No one ever called her that. The Dentist—"

Suddenly profoundly uncomfortable, Willy interrupted himself, shifting his weight, before sighing deeply. The bouncy feeling was gone.


Damp leaves poking through the snow mired Dr. Wonka's feet, staining his shoes. If he remembered right, he was standing where his tray of implements had stood. Behind him, the limo's idle roughened from the waiting. Uncaring, Dr. Wonka pushed the sound from his consciousness.

Araminta… Her name was Araminta. Araminta Walters… He'd learned it after the cleaning: after he'd scraped the infection away from those lovely teeth; away from the jawbones she'd need to hold them; after he'd cleansed the pocket with an antibacterial solution. After they'd moved to his desk.

Dr. Wonka frowned. His feet were feeling clammy with the wet that was beginning to soak through the soles of his shoes. They weren't at all suitable for this unplanned, mucking about. Striving to stave off the cold he knew he'd feel next, Dr. Wonka moved to a spot with fewer leaves. The memory alone was making him cold. Cold because she'd once brought him warmth. He'd taken her particulars as sweetly as he'd known how. It wouldn't do to lose track of the life-support unit for those teeth. She'd told him what he'd asked readily enough, but what he'd learned hadn't made him happy. Her name was a silly one. A silly name someone made-up. Worse, it was an unfashionable name. No one Dr. Wonka knew, or had ever known, had that name. He'd made a show of adjusting the form his was filling out, deciding to himself to never speak that oddball name.

'Miss Walters—'

'Oh, that is too formal! You have helped me. Please call me Minty.'

Dr. Wonka had cringed as she spoke that childish nickname, and at its memory, he cringed again. But now, his gut punctuated the reaction, with its own dollop of distress. With a hand to his side, he acknowledged the stab, and the timing of it, nodding his silent agreement. It was as if he and his pain were old friends, seeing eye-to-eye on something unsuitable. 'Minty' would never do, either. That hadn't been the end of it, he remembered. She'd blathered on.

'My friends do… or else Minta. My grandmama calls me that.'

Who cared? He wasn't going to use that one, either. But the g-word poked at Dr. Wonka's brain. He held the nib of the pen from the page, his attention caught.

'Your grandmother, did you say? Not your mother? Er… Or your father? I don't mean to pry.'

Her eyes had misted.

'They were lost when I was very young. On holiday, in Greece… a flash flood. My grandmama raised me.'

He had bent his head back to the paper, to bury his dancing eyes from her sight.

'I'm so sorry,' he'd trilled, his voice deep with sympathy.

But he wasn't sorry. Not the least bit. Dr. Wonka found it thrilling. 'I was raised', she'd said, making no mention of a brother or sister. It was probable she hadn't any siblings, and at age twenty-eight, she was still a 'miss'. All of it pointed to the teeth-of-perfection being practically alone in this world. Only the interference of the pen they held saved him from rubbing his hands together, with delight. He'd cleared his throat with a subject changing harumpf he was certain she'd been glad of, and told her she'd need follow-up treatments. He was only to happy, right this minute, to schedule them! She was ever so grateful.

That was then. This was now. Dr. Wonka turned to face the street again, watching the specter of her memory as she left that day. Her name had sounded so English, but that hint of an accent he heard, when she spoke, set him wondering about the pedigrees of those dead parents of hers.


"I must desist with that designation. Libby is a dentist. My disdain with that name doth denigrate the whole of the profession," Willy chirped, his index finger in the air.

"Are you kidding? Doth?" Terence was getting his bearings back. 'Doth' was helping. "Libby's always been a dentist, and your disdain when using that name has always denigrated the profession."

Willy stretched out his arm, snagging his frock coat, and pulling it to him.

"So it has, and I'm not kidding. 'Disdain with that name' rhymes, and 'doth' helps the meter and alliteration. As for what I said, I'd rather stop. Did you know, that Libby doth deign to desire that I call him Libby?"

Terence had no trouble getting his mind around that one. He did know.

"And you know that because…?"

"He told me so."

As eager as his eyebrows were to climb, Terence kept his face impassive. He glanced over at Dr. Grant's walking-stick twin.

"Is that where you were?"

Willy had the frock coat in his hand now, reaching into a pocket. Nodding, he removed a silver bi-fold shape, cupping its spine in his palm, holding it up as 'Exhibit A'.

"It was. I needed to go there to re-assure myself I had a learning curve."


Dr. Wonka turned and walked to where the living room had been. The accent or the teeth… which proved the more decisive in the outcome, he wondered. Miss Walters had been punctual about her follow-up visits. It was a point in her favor. He'd taken X-rays of her teeth… copious X-rays. He'd taken regular photographs as well. But that accent! Over tea—he always arranged her as his last appointment of the day, and on two occasions, both coinciding with heavy rain, she'd taken him up on his invitation—in this very spot, he'd discovered she'd originally come to this country as an exchange student. Later, having landed for herself a full scholarship, she'd transferred. Not surprisingly, Dr. Wonka considered the subject she said she'd come to study not worth the voyage over.


"And had you a learning curve, Mr. Chocolatier?"

Willy ducked his head, but smiled at the appellation.

"I did. Thank you for asking. A learning curve is why I'm talking to you now. That, and all the chocolate I've had to drink. I've been sipping it all afternoon. I blame myself for that. I made it, and I surely made sure I made it vvverrry thick. To get me through the thick of things." Willy rocked once where he sat. "I'd say. As of today, I'm working on improving it." Willy thought that over. "The learning curve, I mean, not the chocolate." A pause, and then, "Though I s'pose I mean that, too."

Still in his hand, Willy's frock coat was soon back in its usual place, on his person, its skirt fanned out on the carpet.

Willy was back in his coat, and the small silver bi-fold he'd been holding was back in his pocket. That didn't last long, Terence thought. Willy may have had to step outside himself to start the dialogue, but having started it, he was himself once more.

"Up," Willy said, plucking up his walking-stick, and rising to his feet.

Thinking the remark only commentary—Willy had said it most quietly—it took Terence a minute to realize Willy was saying it to him. But Willy rounding his desk with his hands making an 'up' motion made it clear, and made clear, the motion ended with the removal of his frock coat once more.

Relieved to shed the desk in favor of movement, Terence got up and took the great-circle route, swapping locations with Willy via the desk's other side.

Barely noticing, Terence forgotten, Willy laid the velvet across the desk's surface, removing a sheaf of stiff papers from a wide pocket in the lining of the back. Once they were out, the coat was back on.

"The other reason for the excursion. I'd normally put these in my hat, but I didn't want them to curl."

Nodding, Terence parked himself in one of the armchairs. He could see the papers were stiff, because some of them were photographs, and after last night, he could guess which photos those were.

"'Bracing' for you, picking those up, was it?"

Eyes asparkle, Willy shot Terence a wicked grin. First-hand knowledge got you far.

"Pun intended, I surmise?"

"Of course. Aren't I hard-wired for 'em?"

"Har-dee-hard-har. You're funny. Don't get too comfortable," Willy said, turning the uncomfortable reminders of circumstances past face down on his desk. "We're not staying."

Contradicting himself, Willy settled into his chair, and from another pocket pulled out a skeleton key. He unlocked a lower drawer, moving the sheaf of papers to a hanging folder therein.

Terence eyed the key, knowing there was more to it than could be seen. Locks unlocked with skeleton keys were locks easy to pick, and he'd gotten nowhere with any of the locks on Willy's desk.

"I'm surprised you're not burning those," Terence said.

"You never know when they might come in handy. Thea thought they might someday, and if she thought so, I should. Besides, we're nowhere near the incinerator."

Willy locked the drawer once more, and stood up.

"Are we ready? I'm not. Throw me my hat, please. Who won the pool?"

Feigning ignorance, Terence leant forward, tossing Willy his hat.

"Pool?"

His hat back on his head, Willy was making 'up' motions again. Terence was sitting like a bump on a log.

"Whether or not I knew my mother's name."

Terence was loath to go there, his lips a straight line. Willy only laughed.

"I've lived alone for quite a while, if you call living with three thousand plus Oompa-Loompas alone… but I've lived with whispered speculation for far longer than that. It was one of the joys I gave up in my seclusion, and one of the joys I knew I could count on returning, were I to invite others into my Factory, which once again, I blame on you. So 'fess up. You owe me. Who won the pool?"

Terence acquiesced, in a way.

"Not Libby… He thought you didn't know. He thought if you did, you'd tell Thea. She'd have told him. The others refuse to speculate, and by 'others', I mean Nora. She thinks it's a shame you don't talk about it."

"Nora, Thea…"

Willy's eyes were lost in the distance, saying the names as if he were watching scales balancing. Then Terence heard "Thea…" but it wasn't for him. Willy's voice was soft, trailing off to nothing. When, more than a few minutes later, Willy spoke again, his voice was a far-away whisper.

"I didn't tell Thea. Mama was so different, and she was long gone. Why bring up the competition?"

Terence waited for more, but nothing more was forthcoming.

"Was it a competition?"

"No," Willy allowed. "It wasn't. It was apples and oranges." Quiet again. "But I did use the word, didn't I…" As if it were a divining rod that would lead him to his office door, Willy hefted his walking-stick. "Onward, Inquisitor. Let's get git."


It was time he was going. Dr. Wonka shivered in his coat, delicate fingers of cold, finally finding their way, through the close weave of the fabric. The cold and his memories were competing, with the cold about to get the upper hand. But he couldn't tear himself away. On this very spot, Mina had dared to turn him down.

'I can offer you a position as my assistant,' he'd told her. Though she'd be a nuisance, the X-rays he'd taken had only made the lack of the original more keenly felt.

'Oh, no,' she'd laughed, in her musical lilt, as if he'd suggested she'd like to colonize the moon. 'I have no training.'

'I'd train you, naturally.'

His lips were as pursed now as they were then. Shaking her head, she'd looked away. He should have left it at that, but the barb to his heart insisted on working its way back out.

'You prefer Art? Wasn't that it?'

She frowned at the derision he forgot to keep out of his voice. He frowned in distress, at his carelessness.

'I apologize, my dear. I don't mean to disparage your liking for Art. It just seems to me, that Art is not paying you very well.' And as the habitat for teeth as fine as those, 'You deserve the finer things life was to offer.'

Dr. Wonka picked up his teacup, hiding his face, thanking his stars he hadn't said the habitat phrase out loud. Her teeth made him giddy, and that made him reckless.

'Ah…' She'd laughed again, and taken a sip of her tea. 'It is not the Art who treats me so badly. It is the administrator of my full scholarship who is to blame. He left with all the funds, and left me stranded, with no money, and no way to go home, and no study of Art, but I have found myself, and I am happy. I am in a flower shop, and I make all the designs for the arrangements, and they are very much sought after. It is pleasing, but as you say, it does not pay very much.'

That faint accent and way of speaking had Dr. Wonka listening where normally he would have tuned out. He tilted his head, trying to place the cadence.

'Do I remember you said you are from Greece?'

She'd lowered her head, and drawn her hands tightly into her lap. Ah yes, the desired effect. He'd known well it wasn't Greece she hailed from, but this gave him another chance to show his sympathy, and caring. It was a risk. He might go too far, and truly offend her, but he'd be certain to tread lightly, and sound genuine.

'Oh my dear, once again, I fear I must apologize! That was where the accident occurred, wasn't it? I shudder to think I've made you think of that terrible time.' He'd extended his arm, in a friendly pat. 'Please forgive me.'

She'd withdrawn the wrist he patted, but she'd told him she hailed from the north of France, from Normandy, and she had grown up on a farm. It was why, once her dream of Art had died its unfunded death, she'd chosen to make the flowers and plants she'd loved—and never forgotten—her life.


Terence caught up to Willy in the hall.

"Where are we going?"

"To get Charlie, of course! You said what I did made you think I'd changed my mind, and if you thought that, I can't think Charlie didn't think that. I can't have that now, can I?"

Terence only shrugged, falling into step.

"I'm sure Charlie doesn't think anything like that."

Willy walked faster.

"Then I'm not sure you should think yourself sure of things. I'm not sure. And I'm not taking the chance. Because I'll tell you, dear Terence," Willy flipped his left hand up by the side of his head, "this Factory," he made a rolling gesture with his fingers, "is far too big a place to feel fine in, if in it, you feel you've been forgotten."


Thanks for reading, and if it so strikes you, please let me know your thoughts. A tremendous thank you also to those of you who have recently made this story a favorite. The encouragement helps oodles. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Thank you and thank you to dionne dance and Linkwonka88 for your reviews.