Chapter Ten

The giant G glinted and glittered from Gustafson’s Factory atop the bluffs, casting a shadow on the peaked, snow-blanketed roofs of the little shops and homes. With its steely domed turrets, spindly chimneys, and wall that segregated it from the rest of the humble town below, the building looked like more of a fortress than a factory, save for the stacks belching a dark, noxious smoke.

Inside, international toy buyers crowded into a cavernous showroom with ornate green woodwork paneling the walls, bloodred pillars, and stained glass double doors overlooking a dais with steps leading down to a floor of cold marble. The milling buyers were impatient to see what lay in wait beyond those doors. Could it be another legendary toy for boys and girls? One with the promise to rise to the top of every wish list? They practically frothed at the mouth in anticipation.

The double doors flew open and lights flicked on to show a formidable silhouette, which spun around to reveal a man in an exquisite gold-trimmed cloak with tasseled epaulets. Every inch of his garments was made of the finest fabrics and jewels, from his waistcoat with lustrous buttons and royal-purple necktie, to his glossy top hat, which made him appear even taller. He wore rings on every finger, and clutched a staff topped by an incandescent green gem. His face sported a short, sculpted beard. Gone were the days of the lowly orphan boy in tattered rags. Gustafson had become what he’d always dreamed of being, a true showman, one of magic and mystique known throughout the world—the Magic Man G—and he was thrilled to show off what new invention he had up his emerald-green sleeve. He pulled a cloth off his latest shiny new toy.

There sat a far-improved version of the Twirling Whirly from thirty years prior—composed of finely crafted metals and precious plastics—rebranded as the Werly Twerly. It whirred, chortled, and took to the air, hovering over the wonderstruck buyers. It could sing and whistle and change directions on a dime. The buyers swarmed Gustafson on his dais, thrashing their hands and feverishly placing orders for the toy in the hundreds—no, in the thousands.

Suddenly, the invention smoked and sparked.

It nose-dived into the crowd, and buyers screamed, ducking and dodging, until it suction-cupped itself to an old man’s cheek. Despite his shouting efforts to pry it off, it remained stuck.

“It’s frying my face!” he cried.

“Somebody help that poor man!” a woman pleaded.

Some lifted him from the room as others rescinded their orders and cleared out.

“Let’s get out of here!” shouted a buyer.

The sense of déjà vu turned Gustafson’s stomach.

His jaw hung slackly, his brows furrowed as he looked on in horror. Not for the uncertain fate of the roughed-up buyer, but for his own future. He was starting to lose his spark, and he refused to let that happen. His days as a fool and a failure were far behind him. He’d made sure of that. But while he had become the greatest inventor that ever there was, it was a lie, for all Gustafson’s inventions had been born of the stolen designs he’d indefinitely borrowed when he was just a boy. Now he’d just tried producing a Gustafson Original, and it hadn’t worked. Any idea of his own was missing something. Or someone . . .