Chapter Twelve

A mystified Gustafson scrutinized his own design for the Werly Twerly from his polished desk.

His entire office was opulent, with ornate wallpaper and rich pinewood paneling, a domed lamp with intricately cut pieces of colored glass, and oil portraits of Gustafson and Don Juan, all lit by candles, bulbous wall sconces, and sunlight through long stained glass windows. Gustafson feared that if he didn’t get his act together, he’d end up having to relinquish it all.

“Well, maybe next time someone will lose an eye so they’ll never have to see what a mockery you’ve become.” Don Juan mounted a miniature staircase that led to the top of Gustafson’s desk where Don Juan’s own scaled-down office also lay, dwarfed by a large decorative gold egg.

Gustafson slammed down the page. “If you hadn’t forced me to burn your designs, I could’ve mass-produced you,” he said bitterly. He stood and wrestled off his jacket, flinging it to the floor in frustration. What was he to do about his quaking, crumbling, decaying dominion?

Don Juan chuckled nastily. “And the burden of building an empire would have fallen upon whom? I am, and forever will remain, one, and only one, of a kind.” Don Juan strode gallantly across the desk toward his own minuscule one with its minute furniture and all.

Gustafson took the stopper out of a crystal decanter and poured himself a drink—cranberry juice, his favorite. “I will fix it. You’ll see. Or I will come up with something even better!” he declared. “And you wanna know why? Because I’m the toy maker of the year! Toy maker of the year! Toy maker of the year! Toy maker of the year!” With each repetition, he pointed to the round TOY MAKER OF THE YEAR plaques hanging bountifully on either side of the door’s archway.

“Lift me!” Don Juan commanded him.

Gustafson’s face hardened in confusion.

“Do not be afraid,” Don Juan urged. “I want to offer you sweet words of encouragement.”

Gustafson picked up the pedestal on which Don Juan stood, like a pint-sized crow’s nest one might find on a toy ship, so that they were eye to eye. And then Don Juan slapped him.

“I encourage you to not be an imbecile!” the matador yelled. “Your only successes have come from that book of inventions! So why not borrow another one of Jeronicus’s inventions?”

Gustafson plunked him back down and stormed to the window. “Because I’ve already stolen—”

“Borrowed,” Don Juan interceded.

“—everything in that book!” Gustafson continued. “There is nothing left of him! There is nothing left in that pawnshop of his!” He set down his cup and gazed into the darkening sky.

“Do you want me to slap you again? Because I’m happy to do it,” Don Juan said. “Truly, once a great inventor, always a great inventor. There is always something left.”

Slumped at the sill, Gustafson considered it. Could Jeronicus still have one last invention in him after all those years? Or perhaps a whole other book full of fresh ideas not yet explored?

“It’s easy . . .” Don Juan reminded him, as he had once before, long ago.

Gustafson considered. With Christmas looming on the horizon, all that remained was supplying his factory workers with the blueprints for a new toy—one that actually functioned.

One that would again award him Toy Maker of the Year.

And he knew just where to get it . . .