Chapter Three

(A Lonely Instrument)

There existed an invisible boundary between the crowd and the entertainer, a carefully maintained glass wall that shielded her. So it didn't matter, not really—it didn't matter that she was wearing a positively outrageous black dress that was quite unladylike, and the bawdy men surrounding her didn't act even a bit like gentlemen. Not gentlemen, not a bit, but perhaps there was some ancient, long-forgotten bone of politeness in their slovenly bodies, for they didn't grab or paw for her anymore. They used to, back when she first began performing in the taverns, but they learned over time that if she became upset, she'd stop playing.

Of course, men were still men and drunk was still drunk; she had to deal with at least one uncomfortably booze-drenched businessman who thought she was a ballerina in a music box, and could be manhandled just as easily. The barkeep was contentious about that though—he didn't want to scare off his chief entertainment.

Amy settled her beautiful old violin against her neck, tapping the slender bow against her leg. As always, she had to wait for a few moments before the mildly intoxicated men noticed she was about to begin, and would settle down. The acoustics in the room were terrible, so the place had to be almost completely silent in order to hear the soft music.

Slow. Gentle. A single note, drawn out against the strings.

Half of the tension in the room eased. Work-weary men with sweaty brows and beefy forearms leaned back, and let tight muscles in their shoulders relax.

Amy had heard extensive amounts of music in her lifetime, and had played several instruments. In her experience, there wasn't another instrument like the violin—it was a personal thing, something close and dear and lovely. A piano was bulky, and almost anyone could sit down and plunk away. Flutes belonged to snake charmers and the guitars belonged to lovers, and the cello belonged to the old bachelor. But it took a certain musician to be able to hold a violin correctly, to caress it and coax just the right amount of lightness and strength.

A violin was loneliness in a small wooden box.

She didn't feel like playing a dirge tonight, but she knew if she played something wildly upbeat the crowd would instantly get out of control. So her long slender fingers skipped down a string and the bow quickened—a stream of smooth notes rippled after one another, the music stepping on its own heels; within moments boots were tapping all over the tavern and in her earnestness, her dark curls began to tumble around her face.

The bell over the door tinkled but not a soul looked up, all heads turned towards the violinist in the middle of the room. A very quiet card game was continuing in the corner, but the men were far too distracted to play. The man standing in the doorway shook snow from his hat and sat down, noticing that all the attention was on the skinny musician. The man, who was portly and bore a handsome handlebar moustache, did a double take when he looked at the girl's face. He studied her for a moment, and then his jaw dropped.

Amy finished with a flourish, and applause shook the room, punctuated by whistles and more than a few rowdy whoops. Ever the lady, she curtsied and hurried towards the bar, intending to retire in the back room for a few moments before playing a few more songs. Usually she played for an hour or more and earned a mild amount of tips, certainly more than she got begging on street corners.

"Miss Sweet?"

She froze.

"What on earth are you doing here? Your father is worried sick!"

It was Professor Pumbles, of all people, a friend of her father's. Amy looked at him for a split second, seeing his fat, comfortably familiar face creased in worry. Her first instinct was to run, to just flee and never look back and dive beneath the snow until the ice burnt off the flush on her face. The professor, seeing her like this! In this place! Wearing this dress and peddling her talents like some common minstrel!

But her manners kicked in, and she half-curtsied, bobbing her head. "Sorry, guv'na," she said, her voice sounding very far away to her own blocked-up ears, "I dunno 'oo Miss Sweet is, m' name's Bev. Coppa for the performance, sah?"

He was studying her, and stood up, shoving a hand in his pocket. "Are…are you quite sure?"

Rationality was bleeding into her mind, and Amy met his gaze. She grinned widely, hoping he couldn't hear her thumping heart—thank God it had been the Professor who had discovered her, and not the sharp-eyed Doctor Birchbax. "'Course m' sure, guv'na."

The professor laughed nervously. "I do beg your pardon then. You look just like the daughter of an old friend, she's been missing for quite some time. I do declare…you could pass for her sister! Are you sure? You haven't been to the country?"

Amy was already leaving for the back room, still holding her wide, foolish grin. "Neva been t' th' country, sah. Make sure yah come back f'r Tuesday's performance!"

"Wait, wait, let me give you a copper," the professor said, and without thinking Amy held out her hand. A copper was better than nothing, and she needed the money. He pressed the copper to her palm and glanced upwards, smiling tightly. "There you are, miss."

Automatically, she said, "Thank you, professor."

He looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, what?"

And she fled.

She scarcely had time to seize her black case from the back room before she stood on a crate of old whiskey and vaulted herself through the tiny window. The cold winter air smacked into her face and she fell helter-skelter into the snow, getting powder all down the back of her dress. Her coat, her coat, what had happened to it? She left it behind, and what was worse, she had to maneuver the streets in this positively disreputable getup.

Where to go? Where to go? If she went to the church they would call her a harlot and turn her away; to the house of some kind stranger?

"Stop that girl! Stop her!"

She saw smokestacks in the horizon and knew exactly where to go.

The streets were narrow and the buildings loomed over her as she dashed out into the street, nearly getting hit by a passing motorcar. It honked noisily at her and she scampered past, hardly looking back as she entered the alleyway. Her mind was clicking through maps in her mind, trying to think of the shortest route to the factory, but her emotions were a mess. Professor Pumbles! Here! And her father was still looking for her, still worried…after all this time, she had felt certain he had given up. The slums, though filled to the brim with rubbish and knife fights, had become a home.

Her father would never venture to this squalid place, certainly not this time of year when the cold weather made thieves desperate. Amy turned a corner hard and lost her shoe, falling hard and scraping her hands badly on the gritty, snowy alleyway. Her show had flown into a snowbank and she dug for it, her cold, raw hands going numb as she shoveled through the snow.

Was he following her?

"'Ey now, pretty thing, wotch yah doin' in this neck o' th' woods, eh?"

A man, unshaven, dirty, unkempt, advanced on her. There was a glint in his eyes and Amy knew he was reacting to the dress; her coat, ah, what she wouldn't give for her coat! Amy's half-frozen fingers closed around the shoe and without thinking she threw it at him as hard as she could, and took off running down the alleyway. The man shouted in anger as the shoe hit him but Amy had already disappeared around the corner, heading towards the center of the city.

Now she had two men pursuing her.

Mr. Wonka opened the door and the girl fell inside, half-frozen, soaked, and wearing a dress that offered as much warmth as a damp sock. Her hair was stiff with ice and her lips were blue; she chattered and shivered and could barely speak, but she locked the door behind her tightly and fell against it, hugging her arms to herself. The candymaker blinked and took a step back.

"P-p-please," she chattered, "d-d-do you h-have a c-c-c-coat?"

"Better than that," he assured her, and handed her a candy.

Amy looked at it questioningly, but popped it in her mouth; instantly, heat rushed to her tongue and she nearly spat it out, but swallowed it instead. It burned a hot stripe down her throat and into her belly and warmth rushed to the very tips of her toes—it felt like her hair was standing on end, or steam was rushing out of her ears. She choked. "What is that?"

"Cinnamints," he said cheerfully, and took her by the arm as though this was a completely normal thing to do. "Come, I've just made a fresh batch of butterscotch."

Barefoot, warm but still wet, Amy trailed after him, her hand in the crook of his arm. Entering this factory was like stepping through the looking glass—everything was upside-down and backwards. He seemed completely fine with the fact that she was dressed ridiculously and frozen to the bone, but more intent on getting her deeper into the factory. It was warm, and hopefully the men hadn't followed her. Professor Pumbles was remarkably out of shape and other, uncouth man wasn't in the clearest state of mind. Perhaps they hadn't followed her. She had done an extra loop around the building and disappeared through the back fence just to be sure, and lost her other shoe in the process.

How had they found her? Her father seldom came to the city save on business, and the professor would never come to this side of town unless he had been meeting with an unsavory client. What's worse, the professor would doubtless inform her father and he would storm the place until he found his daughter. Amy gripped Mr. Wonka's arm more tightly and tried to think of a plan. After tonight, where would she go? She could disappear deeper into the alleys, down the sewers perhaps—but she wrinkled her nose at the thought. No, she was at her limit. There had to be another way.

Down, down, down, they continued descending the seemingly endless staircases. "Where are we going?" Amy managed to ask, but Mr. Wonka didn't answer, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Had it been a mistake to come here? The smell of butterscotch was growing stronger, and anything involving butterscotch couldn't be all bad, could it?

He stopped suddenly and turned on her, seizing her by the shoulders. "Do you promise on your life not to tell a single soul what you see behind these doors?" he demanded.

It was then that Amy noticed the enormous red doors behind Mr. Wonka. He was looking down at her fiercely, and for a second Amy was frightened. She'd been chased, threatened, and now grabbed within a small period—what was behind those doors? Amy nodded quickly. "I promise, Mister Wonka," she said.

He didn't release her right away, and just kept looking at her, as if torn whether or not to believe her. Amy knew from experience that insisting that people should trust you rather gave them the wrong impression, so she stayed silent. Her wet hair dripped on the stone floors, and she shivered a little. He was still scrutinizing her, still thinking, and then after a moment, he relaxed.

"Close your eyes," he said, and he released her. Uncertainly, Amy did so, and she heard the door creaking open. "Don't open them until I say so."

He took her arm again and Amy followed blindly, her heart still pounding. This place was mad, it was topsy-turvy and backwards and so many shades of bizarre…

"Open." he whispered in her ear.

A blinding flash of colors, all shapes and sizes. Green grass. Blue lollipops. A road of gingerbread. And most gloriously, a miniature waterfall of chocolate. There were crooked little trees laden down with multicolored balls of jawbreakers, large mushrooms full of what looked like cake with icing, and bridges with bricks of candies. Ribbon candy seemed to grow like moss, hanging from the tiny stunted trees, and even though the room was small, it seemed to fill up so much more. There was a bench that appeared to be made from regular wood, and Amy staggered a little against Mr. Wonka, trying to take it all in.

"It was going to be bigger," Wonka was explaining, but Amy wanted him to just be quiet, because this was just all much too much. "But after the factory closed I didn't feel like expanding."

"Oh," Amy said breathlessly. "Oh, it's beautiful."

He looked straight at her as though he wanted to memorize. "Do you really think so?" he asked earnestly.

She wasn't looking at him at all, she was still riveted by the cunning little toffee roads and the butterscotch-colored rocks nestled in the spearmint grass. The detail was incredible; the bark on the trees was made out of white chocolate, curling off in great strips, ready to be broken off and nibbled. Flowers made from spun sugar glistened in the lights overhead, and bon-bons gathered in clumps, like pebbles by the little rivulet of chocolate in one end of the room. It was more like a stream of chocolate, with a tiny little waterfall that tumbled over rocks made of walnuts; Amy noticed little sticks of peppermint, obviously made for spearing candy and dipping it into the river, and she pressed a hand against her heart.

"It looks like it came straight from your head," she breathed, "just sprang out of your imagination."

"It did," he said, and actually smiled. Ah, but that felt good, to be pleased with something! To take satisfaction in his creations! To show someone what his mind was like, what he wanted the whole world to look like. If the world looked like there wouldn't be anything awful or evil—candy took the hatred straight out of people.

She never wanted to leave.

And in that moment, she realized that perhaps she didn't have to.

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Felt like writing a bit of romance today, so here we are! It's a little scattered but I think it's all right. This story isn't going to be very long, ten chapters max, so I'm trying to pace myself.

[Six reviews received]

Special thanks to: Starcrier, Military-Sweetheart, Yuki Suou, dionne dance, DragonOwl, and hossa.

Thank you all so much for reviewing! I'm hoping to alternate perspectives from chapter to chaper, but I'll admit, Wonka's thoughts are more fun! Hope you enjoyed! ^^