Charlie's timid hand stole into Terence's.

"Do you think," he started, in his quiet voice, "if Willy gets too far ahead, we'll get lost?"

Terence looked down, seeing only the lank, brown hair on the top of Charlie's head, Charlie's resolute eyes glued on the receding form that had all but disappeared in the gloom. As if a firefly were leading them, random flashes of light, reflections glancing off the ridged spirals of Willy's walking-stick, were all they could see.

Terence gave the small hand in his a squeeze, as he looked again to the tunnel in front of them. Retreating by advancing, an interesting strategy, but as far as Willy's present departure went, Terence had his suspicions. 'How can they talk about me, if I'm there?' It was Willy's blithe explanation for sending Terence—instead of attending himself—to a dinner at the Buckets', after Charlie's private tour had ended. Terence remembered the observation now. This had that feel. By this time, Willy had disappeared.

"I suspect, Charlie, there's only one person in this factory who could lose himself in it, which isn't the same as being lost in it, if you catch my drift, and that person just showed you a picture of his mother. As for the rest of us, we may not know where we are, but someone in this Factory does, and they would come and find us."

His upper teeth gently finding the edge of his lower lip, Charlie took his eyes off the dimness ahead, glancing up at Terence. Charlie hoped that was true, but it wasn't his real worry. His real worry, he didn't know if he should bring up. He'd seen the photo. Terence hadn't. What had gone wrong in Charlie's family could be fixed with regular meals, but if that was the picture of his mother Willy treasured, food wouldn't touch what had gone wrong in Willy's family. Not even very sweet food. But Terence had been here. Willy knew that.

"Do you think so?"

It was hard to see, but Terence could hear. There was pain in Charlie's voice; pain for a loss not his own.

"I do, Charlie, you bet, every time. With as many Oompa-Loompas as there are, how could it be otherwise?"

Speaking, listening, Terence was also sorting facts. Willy had said he'd seen a picture of his mother on her passport. And he'd said he hadn't been able to keep it. So this picture wasn't that picture. Passport photos… they show the face, full on. And having shown him this picture's case in his office, and telling him he'd taken it with him to Libby's today, to see if he had a learning curve, but not earlier claiming it as a picture of his mother… there had to be something odd about this one. Blurred, maybe? Stained?

Willy's voice stirred in Terence's head. 'So ask. I'm elsewhere'. Yeah, I get that, old chap, but I'm not gonna. From what you've told me, and shown me, I have my suspicions, and that's enough. There's prying and spying, and here and now, neither suits.

"There aren't any Oompa-Loompas here."

Keeping hold of Charlie's hand, Terence kept his voice chipper.

"Now that you mention it, I suspect you're right. But notice, Charlie, so far, this tunnel is a straight shot. No intersecting tunnels. And there are no doors leading off it. I suspect Willy knows we can't get lost. We just have to follow our noses, and we'll be fine."

"Okay."

Charlie was slowing, his shoulders tense. He thought it again. Terence had been with them when Willy showed him the snapshot. That must mean something. Turning, Charlie withdrew his hand, and stopped. Terence had been here. Charlie hoped that meant spilling the beans was okay.

"Terence?"

Terence almost laughed. Willy rubbed off on everyone around him.

"Charlie."

"That photo had no head."

Delving into it now was different. He hadn't been the one to bring it up.

"Headless, you say?" That wasn't the surprise it would have been, had Willy not given him the clues to let him suss it out, and Terence's tone was as blasé as he could make it. "D'ya think our Willy is related to the Headless Horseman, by way of the distaff side?"

Terence's lack of a shocked reaction was reassuring, and the encouragement Charlie needed.

"It's not funny, Terence!" Who knew what 'distaff side' meant, but Charlie didn't care. Terence didn't get it! "Her head was torn off, and most of her shoulders. And the paper was all full of creases, like someone had made it into a ball. Willy was in it. He was standing in front of her, like in the picture over at Dr. Grant's house, with his other mother."

"Thea."

"Mrs. Grant," Charlie agreed, less agitated, pleased with Terence's now somber demeanor. "Anyway, the part of the picture Willy was in wasn't torn. He was really young looking." Charlie knit his brows. "Way younger than I am. And he was really happy. Not that fake happy he does sometimes… really happy."

"So that's good."

"But it's sad." Charlie said, his eyes imploring. "Who would have torn it like that? And mashed it up?

"Ya got me, kiddo." But Terence had a pretty good idea. Dollars to doughnuts, the mangler would a much older someone Terence had met on the spear side, who had given him chills. "No one we want to know, I suspect."

Charlie forced a brave smile. "You suspect a lot of things."

"I suspect so do you. And I suspect if we don't get a move on, Willy will get tired of waiting, and leave without us. Your grandma wants your grandpa back."

Charlie didn't budge.

"Taking away someone's house, without telling them, is a bad thing." Charlie swallowed, his slim fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. "But it was one thing. With this, there are two things." Charlie swallowed again, but afterward, his jaw was set. "Are there more things?"

"I suspect so," Terence said, after a considering pause, his voice deliberate. "Would that make you not want to stay?"

Charlie had whirled at 'suspect so', and Terence wasn't sure if Charlie had heard the question. He was off at a jog, the way Willy had gone. Terence hustled to catch up, and doing so, discovered Charlie had heard him. But the answer was muffled, as Charlie didn't bother to look back.

"No! It makes me want to be there, in case Willy wants to remember anything else!"


This remembering was idiotic. It wasn't advancing the ball at all, and beneath his breath, Dr. Wonka cursed his own folly. Coming here was a waste of time. These memories were awful. And some of them weren't. Some of them warmed his soul, more than the wind froze his flesh. Some of these memories squeezed out warm tears, wetting the corners of his eyes, where the cold caught them, and crystalized them, turning them into minuscule shards of ice. Breathing out, his lungs made a choking sound.

It was a hideous coincidence seeing Mina again, ripping him to his core, his vanishing act following her vanishing act, but seeing her had sent him here… the place he'd vowed never to set foot again… the last place he'd seen her. Wrapping his arms around his middle, Dr. Wonka twisted back and forth, as if the twisting would twist him away from these ancient apparitions. It did and it didn't.

Disoriented, he stopped, only to find himself staring in the direction of the garden. She'd loved the garden. That's what Mina had told him. Gardens, and gardening. And she had loved it. Mina hadn't lied. Mina never lied. Even when she'd told him she could never have children—making her perfect—she'd thought it was the truth.

Like crafty fingers looking for more weakness, a dry breeze picked at the hem of Dr. Wonka's fluttering coat. The strength of the breeze was his own fault. His removing the building had made this place a Venturi, the air accelerating as it passed through. Everything was more than it should be here: everything heightened, everything worsened. Squeezing shut his eyes, crushing the crystals in their corners, Dr. Wonka let his hands, like lifeless weights, drop to his sides. It was time to admit it. Deceive everyone else if you must, but deceive yourself and you're done. William—not Willy—Shakespeare got that right. Time to own up. A ramble in the garden was why he was here.

Pivoting to face the empty air where the back door had once stood, Dr. Wonka could see that truth now, even as he wondered if, now, here, he'd have the stones to walk among the ghosts of those long dead blooms. Seeing Mina; Mina with her boy. The spitting image of her… and the other—if you could see a spitting image hundreds of yards away—but that fine point was beside the point. The specter of what he'd seen gripped him again, and in this lot, it felt so much worse. His heart felt forced from between his ribs, his breath bottled in his chest. His searing pain was like shining, slivered, silver needles, scoring, with a thousand tiny tears, every internal organ he possessed. Because Mina had surprised him. Shocked him. In the time he'd known her, spent with her, it was more than her teeth that had captured his heart. It was everything about her.

His arms clamped at his sides. Holding himself together, Dr. Wonka strove to appear normal, should anyone be watching. It wouldn't do to seem in distress. The world was his to command. Pointless now, at this late date, to lose his freedom. His hands found his pockets, searching for warmth. Finding some, Dr. Wonka drew strength. He took a deep breath, calming himself. He needn't go further. He could turn away, leave this lot. Transportation was waiting. But he knew he wouldn't. This was a golden opportunity, in a world of shrinking opportunities; golden or otherwise. He laughed at the analogy. Curse that Boy, and his Contest! It was ruining everything. His laugh rang out in the crisp air, as sharp and jagged as a frost tracing, etching itself on frigid glass. Its crackle brought him back to himself, and he dared to sneer. If The Boy could stand it, so could he.


I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Thank you readers, and thank you reviewers: past, present, and future. It's been awhile, but life got a tad demanding, and as demanding as this story is turning out to be [for me, anyway] I had to step away from it. But now I'm back, and ready to finish this up… Thanks for sticking with it.

ButlerXArtemis: Three cheers that internet access as found you. I'm sorry the wait for this chapter has been such a long one. I hope you enjoy it, and continue to enjoy the story. As far as your comment about Terence goes, I think it is six seconds, and nary a peep out of him. But hey! It's quality, not quantity.
Squirrela: I think you're right, the man will be exhausted. And yet, there's more to do. What comes to mind is the last stanza of that poem… The one that ends "And miles to go before I sleep".* It was great to read
your update.
Linkwonka88: It does make sense; thank you. Link-et: I sometimes wonder the same thing. Dr. Wonka is a strange duck. Strange nut? I reckon he'd best avoid his son's trained squirrels.
Chyna: Thank you, you are very kind indeed. I'm pretty fond of Terence, too. Whoever played him—and I haven't found out yet who that was—got a lot across in his six second appearance. As for Willy, God bless Mr. Depp and Mr. August. You can't go wrong remembering, "Not just some something. The most something something of any something that's ever been." The hard part is to stop talking that way. ;)

*Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost.