Author's Note: Alright my goal was to have this chapter done by the end of April and it's 11pm here so I call that a win! Thank you to those of you who have continued to leave reviews this past year (ugh over a year) and especially those of you who followed me over to tumblr and pestered me (kindly) there. I'm not the type of author who needs feedback in order to write more, but wow if it didn't encourage me.


The next day, the news broke that Slugworth's case against Wonka Industries was being dismissed, but that was, surprisingly, not the biggest headline of the day.

No, that was reserved for the rumors that A.L. McCaine's mystery beau might be the great chocolatier, Willy Wonka himself. It was almost entirely hearsay and coincidences, strung together by barely-coherent suppositions.

That it was true was beside the fact.

Amalda was forced to close her shop and barricade herself inside, something that had been briefly necessary when her latest book first came out, but not to this extent. She was lucky to have a fridge full of food thanks to Julia's generosity and a baker friend who was unwittingly trapped with her.

Belinda had tried to step outside once, convinced that she could barrel stubbornly past the mob of reporters that were circling like hungry wolves. She was mistaken. As soon as she opened the door, they'd tried to press inside. She was forced to stumble back, slamming the door in their faces with a ferocious scowl.

Amalda merely handed her a cup of tea and suggested an early dinner.

Belinda didn't understand how her friend could be so blasé about it all, but Amalda had had a lot of time to think about what would happen if - when - her relationship with Willy came out. She had never thought that it wouldn't come out eventually; she had just hoped that it would be the result of her moving in with him, perhaps. Where they could weather the storm together and she would have no need to venture out without Mr. Wilkinson's solid presence or his private car to deliver her somewhere safely.

The worst part, the part she tried not to think about, was what would happen when everyone realized the truth: that she was not in a secret, passionate relationship with the famous, eccentric candyman. That he had, in fact, dumped her for a perceived betrayal. She had no doubt which side the public would take, if they learned even an inkling of what had happened. She'd made her publisher swear that they would not only refrain from commenting but would also do nothing to attempt to sway public opinion to Amalda's side. She had no desire to see Willy painted as a villain either.

Even if sometimes he acted like one.

No, that wasn't true, she didn't hate him. Amalda understood, intellectually, how Willy had come to the conclusion that she had leaked his secrets. And she had, if unintentionally.

The problem with secrets is that one person (Willy) tells another person (Amalda) in confidence, then that person also tells one other person (Damien) in confidence, and so on until so many people know the secret that it may as well not be a secret at all. She was angry with Damien for talking about it in a public space, but to be fair to him, he hadn't really known how big of a secret it was. Even Amalda hadn't properly understood. If someone had stolen one of Amalda's stories, she probably would have just shrugged and told a different story, but these things worked a little differently in the world of major corporations and copyrights and worldwide distributions.

But there was nothing to be done for it at this stage, except to wait out the storm and hope her life would eventually return to some semblance of normalcy. In spite of her resolve, Amalda sighed. Owning her own shop, being able to share her stories with the world…it was everything she'd dreamed it would be. She'd achieved everything she'd wanted. And yet. And yet…

A week into their unexpected imprisonment, in a fit of pique, Belinda eschewed dinner that evening and baked a massive tray of brownies. The delectable scent that wafted throughout the building was bittersweet. Of course Belinda only used the best chocolate in her baking, so Amalda couldn't help but be reminded of the chocolate factory. But there was more to brownies than just chocolate, especially brownies baked with love and the desire to comfort a friend in need. Soon the two of them were ensconced on the old, comfy couch in Amalda's living room, the curtains drawn to keep out the prying eyes of the press, with a half-empty bottle of wine next to the half-empty tray of brownies. Amalda was flipping through her notebook, tossing out increasingly ridiculous ideas for her next book which Belinda attempted to embellish.

"I already did lions, but maybe tigers or bears-"

"Oh, my!" Belinda giggled. She had a girlish, high-pitched laugh that made it impossible for Amalda not to join in.

"I see your point," Amalda said with a grin. "I certainly don't need to be associated with a wicked witch."

Belinda paused. "Oh, but your monkeys were fine!"

"Ah, but they weren't flying monkeys," Amalda replied with a shake of her head. "And anyway, I want to do something that doesn't already have an association in popular media."

"No flying elephants then either," Belinda added, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Perhaps another sea creature? The walrus was popular."

Amalda nodded slowly. "That would make Damien happy. He adored drawing the underwater scenery."

"Plenty of other fish in the sea," Belinda said sagely, then added a saucy wink.

"Ugh." Amalda rolled her eyes. "Or maybe not."

"Oh wait, I know!" Belinda sat up from where she'd been lounging on the couch, practically bouncing on the edge of her seat. "How about a giraffe?"

In the end, they stayed up late into the night while Amalda fleshed out her new plot, with Belinda's comments spurring her on like drops of inspiration.

It was not the first of their late nights, nor would it be the last. Keeping their spirits up became as vital as sneaking in supplies.

Amalda was not at all surprised when oversleeping became the norm instead of a rare occurrence. It was more and more difficult to drag herself out of bed each morning, but she was determined to maintain her normal routine as much as possible.

Though the shop had been closed for some time, Amalda still went down every day, even though there was absolutely nothing left for her to do there. Every inch of the place had been cleaned and dusted, each book had been cataloged and perfectly shelved, she had researched new titles she would like to order once it was safe to receive deliveries again, and she had gone over her accounting records twice. She still had some time before her financial situation became dire, but she couldn't keep the shop closed forever. She would simply have to hope the furor died down or that there was some new scandal to distract the press, or she might have to consider selling.

She sighed. She wanted to remain optimistic - not too long ago it had seemed like all of her dreams were coming true, after all - but it was difficult when considering her present circumstances.

She selected a book at random, a habit she'd developed recently to keep her occupied for the day. Today's selection was a children's book on entomology, but she found herself mostly staring blankly at the pictures.

Around noon, Belinda finally came bustling down the stairs and Amalda roused herself to give her friend a half-hearted smile.

"What is today's selection?" Belinda asked, leaning over the counter. "Bugs? Oh, I see, it is a children's game. What bug am I?" She wrinkled her nose. "Why would I want to be a bug?"

That got a small laugh from Amalda. She leaned back in her chair. "I think I might be a butterfly."

"Oh? Because you are a bright cheerful creature who flutters through life?"

This time Amalda's laugh was sardonic. "Did you know most butterflies only live for a week or two? They start life crawling on the ground and transform into something beautiful that can fly, but they only get to enjoy it for a brief time."

Belinda frowned. "Poppycock. Give me that." She tugged the book across the counter and began to flip through it. Her expression cleared and she tapped on one of the pages. "Here, this one. Vibrant. Hardworking. Brings good luck to those around her." She winked. "Like me. And lives dozens of times the life of a butterfly."

Her words were like a balm to Amalda's sore heart. She blinked back tears as she reached a hand across the counter and Belinda took it, squeezing gently. "Out of everything that's come of this, I'm so glad we got to be friends," she said, her voice wavering a little.

"I, as well. Now please, may we abandon this talk of insects and go enjoy our lunch?"

Amalda couldn't help her giggle as she rose to follow Belinda back upstairs. She picked up the book to place it back in its proper spot, smiling at the colorful pictures before she closed it. Maybe Belinda was right. Maybe she wasn't a butterfly after all.

Maybe she was a ladybug.


Charlie Bucket was…confused.

The day the news broke with the rumors of Mr. Wonka and Amalda's relationship, his family had been gathered around the TV, anticipating an announcement about the Slugworth trial. They could only gape in astonishment and horror as the television flashed increasingly sensational newspaper headlines across the screen, interspersed with shots of Amalda's bookshop and interviews with every random person on the street who admitted to having ever entered the shop. Eventually, Charlie excused himself, setting off to find Mr. Wonka and dreading what his mood would be.

But when he finally found his mentor, Mr. Wonka was bustling about with an industriousness that Charlie hadn't seen since before…well, before. For some reason he had moved his half desk and half chair from his office to the Inventing Room, or were those the other halves of the furniture, never before seen but stored away ever since Mr. Wonka decided he was only interested in doing office things halfway?

"Er, Mr. Wonka?" Charlie asked tentatively, glancing between the strewn notes spilling off the half-desk and the chocolatier flitting about the room, a pair of thick goggles with a swirling pattern on the lenses obscuring his eyes.

"Charlie! Good!" Grabbing his arm, Mr. Wonka hauled him over to one side of a vast, incomprehensible machine. "Hold this lever while I pump." Bemused, Charlie obligingly pulled the lever, peering around a giant, slowly clanking cog to watch as Mr. Wonka caught hold of what looked suspiciously like the bellows of an accordion. Oh, it was an accordion, he realized, wincing at the off-key wheezing sounds as Mr. Wonka slowly stretched it to capacity and then compressed it, repeating the gesture twice more before seeming to be satisfied.

"What are we doing?" Charlie asked.

Mr. Wonka tilted his head, the goggles making him look like some strange kind of bug. "Why, inventing of course!"

Charlie bit back a grin and remembered why he was there. "Did you, er, see the news today?" He asked, trying to sound casual.

For a moment, Mr. Wonka didn't react, appearing to study the workings of the machine, lost in thought. Then he gave a start and, with a sharp shake of his head, strode past Charlie back to his half desk. "Always another scandal," he murmured, waving a hand over his shoulder dismissively, but Charlie knew his mentor well enough to catch an undercurrent of bitterness behind the words.

Charlie took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Are you going to do anything about it?"

Mr. Wonka's lip curled, but it was more of a sneer than a smile. "What would I possibly do about it? And why would I?" He pulled off the goggles, leaving sharp red circles around his eyes. It made him look oddly as if he'd been crying. He blinked at Charlie. "Oh, you can let go of that lever now, dear boy."

Charlie eased his grip and shook out his fingers before tucking both hands into his pockets. He stared disconsolately at the mysterious machine. While he was glad not to have to bear witness to yet another of Mr. Wonka's infamous rages, Charlie had hoped he was coming around to the idea of making up with Amalda. He'd really thought he was getting through to him the other night. He sighed. "I just hope she's okay," he said quietly.

At his half desk, Mr. Wonka shuffled some papers and pretended not to hear, but Charlie knew better.


Willy was getting extremely tired of the way everyone kept looking at him.

Charlie had grown increasingly jumpy, as if he was just waiting for an explosion, and not the fun kind. One minute he would seem much older than his thirteen years, sliding open-ended comments easily into their conversations and then hesitating as if to give Willy the space to confide in him. The next he would be moping in a manner that befit a much younger child. And the rest of the time he watched Willy with wide, uncertain eyes.

Mrs. Bucket was hardly any better. Willy had tried to resume his family dinners with the Buckets as if nothing unusual had happened, but too often he caught Mrs. Bucket frowning at him, opening her mouth as if to interrogate him (or berate him?) and then closing it silently. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what she would say when she finally worked up the nerve. He started coming around for meals less often, claiming he was working on a brilliant new idea.

Mr. Wilkinson kept glaring dourly at him, but really that wasn't too unusual for Mr. Wilkinson. It would have been more alarming if he'd started smiling.

The truth was, Willy was working on a new idea, and it was, he hoped, brilliant.

It was, in fact, an apology.

Or at least, he hoped it would be taken as such.

"Time is too slow…or is it too swift?" He mused to himself.

"Sir?"

Willy spun around in his half-chair. Mr. Wilkinson stood in the doorway, looking balefully confused.

"Ah, good!" Willy bounced to his feet. "It's now! The time is now!"

"Sir?" This time the inquiry was laden with suspicion.

"Schedule the press conference!"

"The…the press conference, sir?"

Willy almost laughed at the alarmed expression on Mr. Wilkinson's face.

"It's time to reveal Wonka's newest creation to the world. And this time, no one is going to steal it from me." His lips twisted in a satisfied smirk. "Because no one knows what it is except me."

"Mr. Wonka, are you sure-"

"Absolutely."

Mr. Wilkinson sighed. He had worked with Willy too long and knew when there was no chance of reasoning with his employer. "When and where, sir?"

"When…well, as soon as possible! And as for where…" Willy leaned forward conspiratorially, his eyes glinting with mischief.

The morning began like any other, except that the sky was overcast and dreary, leaving Amalda feeling lethargic and slightly grumpy. She was perusing her language section, wondering if she had anything that might help her learn German (her latest venture with Belinda), when an unusual sound jolted her from her reverie.

There was a knock at the door.

The simple rapping, once such a common and ordinary occurrence, now froze Amalda in place. She was crouched next to one of the shelves in a way that blocked her view of the door. If the nosy reporters had gotten bold enough to hammer on her door…but no, it had been an exceedingly normal knock. Polite, yet brisk. Perfunctory, as if expecting a response but not impatiently demanding one.

Amalda cautiously peered over the top of the shelf. The curtain was drawn over the door's glass pane, as it had been since the first time someone tried to take a picture of her through it. In the dim light of the cloudy day, Amalda could make out a tall, thin shadow with the outline of a brimmed hat. After a moment, it seemed to shrink - bending, she realized, as if to place something outside the door. Then it straightened again and paused for a long moment. Amalda thought it - he? - might knock again, but the shadow at last receded.

Amalda crept swiftly and silently forward, pressing her ear against the door. She heard a door slam somewhere outside, very nearby, and then the sound of an engine revving. A car, pulling away from the curb. Someone had driven up, parked directly in front of her shop, had time to knock on the door and leave something outside it, and then driven off again…without the usual clamor of reporters verbally assaulting them with questions.

Before she had time to second-guess herself, Amalda was swiping open the multiple locks on the door. She knelt as she swung it open, snaking one arm out to grab the parcel on the stoop and then slamming the door shut again, doing up the locks even faster than she'd undone them. She clutched the small box to her chest and realized she was almost panting, her heart racing with adrenaline, and she scowled. It wasn't right that a person should have to live like this, to be made to feel this way in her own home.

Clattering footsteps from the opposite end of the shop almost gave her a heart attack, but it was only Belinda rushing down the stairs.

"I heard a noise," Belinda huffed, out of breath herself. "Was that the door?" She focused on the box in Amalda's arms. "Mail delivery?"

Amalda shook her head. "It's all being routed to my publisher. This was hand delivered."

"What? By who?" Belinda looked alarmed. "What if it's dangerous?"

Amalda felt a momentary chill. She hadn't considered that. "I don't…think it is. I didn't see who left it, but they didn't seem threatening."

Belinda gave her a look. "You did not see them but they did not look threatening. Of course, I understand."

"You're right, that does sound ridiculous," Amalda replied with a wry smile. "Still…"

"Well, you have it now. Shall we see what it is?"

Amalda nodded and set the box on the counter, taking her usual seat behind it. Belinda dragged over a stool, settling close enough that she could see but well out of arm's reach. They studied the small box. It looked ordinary enough, a nondescript brown box with a fitted lid. No label on the outside, no string holding it shut. Someone was very certain that the box would be found by the one it was intended for.

Amalda exchanged another look with Belinda. Then, with a fortifying breath, she lifted the lid, jerking her arms back quickly as if expecting something to leap out at her.

Nothing happened.

As one, the ladies leaned forward to peer curiously into the box.

Nestled inside it were half a dozen chocolates.

"Oh…" Amalda said softly.

Then Belinda gasped. "Look!" She gestured to the upturned lid that Amalda had discarded on the counter.

Taped inside the lid was a thick purple envelope, with her name elaborately lettered in brilliant gold.

Amalda felt suddenly as if the world had stopped, as if she had been plunged deep underwater. She reached for the envelope and it felt as if she were moving in slow motion; she noted in a detached fashion that her hands were shaking. She heard Belinda's fervently muttered "Finally!" but couldn't acknowledge it. Her entire focus was on the letter. The letter that Willy had sent her.

Pulling it free, she broke the wax seal with the embellished "W" and pulled out a thick, folded piece of vellum. She unfolded it carefully, but had to set it on the counter to read it; her hands really were shaking badly.

Belinda politely kept her focus on Amalda's face, avoiding peeking at the letter before Amalda had a chance, but Amalda could sense her intense interest. "What does it say?" Belinda urged.

Amalda made herself read.

The letter was short and sweet, more of a cryptic announcement.

Wonka's Mnemonic Meltaways

1. Find

2. Choose

3. Arrange

4. Create

5. Grieve

6. Love

Take a Bite and Think


Author's Note: You may be pleased to know that the next chapter has an outline already. That may not end up meaning anything, you know me by now, but...we'll see how it goes!