Buffeted by the relentless shrieks and moans of bending metal, the startling hiss of steam-powered machinery, and the echoing jolts of a great hammer being operated by six men, Annabelle found herself flinching with each new assault on her ears. Instantly, she felt Simon’s arm slide around her back, while he engaged in a friendly, half-shouted conversation with the flange-shop manager, Mr. Mawer.

“Have you caught sight of Lord Westcliff yet?” Simon asked. “He had planned to arrive at the foundry at noon—and I’ve never known him to be late before.”

The middle-aged foundryman blotted his sweating face with a handkerchief as he replied. “I believe the earl is at the assembly yard, Mr. Hunt. He had a concern about the dimensions of the new cylinder castings, and he wanted to inspect them before they were bolted into place.”

Simon glanced down at Annabelle. “We’ll go outside,” he told her. “It’s too damned hot and noisy to wait for Westcliff in here.”

Relieved at the prospect of escaping the relentless clamor of the foundry, Annabelle agreed immediately. Now that she had gotten a thorough look at the place, her curiosity was satisfied, and she was ready to leave—even if that mean having to spend time in the company of Lord Westcliff. As Simon paused to ex change a few last words with Mawer, she watched as a steam-powered blower was employed to force air into the large central cupola. The blast of air caused hot metal to run into carefully positioned ladles, each one containing a thousand pounds of unstable liquid.

A particularly large heap of scrap iron was dumped into the charging door at the top of the cupola…too large, apparently, for the foreman shouted angrily at the foundryman who had loaded the truck. Narrowing her eyes, Annabelle observed them intently. A few rough shouts of warning from the men at the top of the gallery heralded another air blast of the steam blower…and this time, disaster struck. Boiling iron swiftly overran the ladles and dropped in bubbling wads from the cupola, some of it catching in the traveling cranes. Simon paused in midconversation with the flange-shop manager, both of them glancing upward at the same time.

“Jesus,” she heard Simon say, and she had one flashing glimpse of his face before he shoved her to the ground and covered her with his own body. At the same time, two pumpkin-sized clots of hell-broth dropped into the cooling troughs below, setting off a series of instantaneous explosions.

The impact of the blasts was like a succession of full body blows. Annabelle had no breath to cry out as Simon hunched over her, his shoulders curving in a shield over her head. And then—

Silence.

At first it seemed the motion of the earth itself had been brought to a jarring halt. Disoriented, Annabelle blinked to clear her vision, and was assaulted by the harsh brilliance of fire, the looming shapes of machinery silhouetted like monsters from the illustrations of a medieval tome. Intermittent blasts of heat struck her with such force that they threatened to peel the flesh from her bones. Flurries of metal chips and filings flew through the air as if they had been shot from a gun. She was surrounded by a whirl of movement and chaos, all of it blanketed in stunning quiet. Suddenly, there was a popping sensation in her ears, and they were filled with a tinny, high-pitched tone.

She was being pulled from the floor. Simon gave a hard tug to her arms, bringing her up in one powerful motion. Helpless against the force of momentum, she landed against his chest. He was saying something to her…she could almost make out the sound of his voice, and she began to hear the bursts of smaller explosions and the roaring undercurrent of fire as it fed hungrily on the building. Staring at Simon’s hard face, she tried to comprehend his words, but she was distracted by the sting of more hot metal chips that peppered her face and neck like a swarm of nasty biting insects. Driven by instinct rather than reason, she couldn’t stop herself from swatting foolishly at the air with her hand.

Simon shoved and dragged her through the pandemonium while trying to protect her with his body. An elephantine boiler barrel rolled gently before them, placidly crushing everything in its path. Cursing, Simon jerked Annabelle backward as the object rumbled by. There were men everywhere, shoving and swarming and shouting, white-eyed with the will to survive as they headed to the entryways on both ends of the building. A new set of eruptions shook the foundry, accompanied by rough cries. It was too hot to breathe, and Annabelle wondered dazedly if they would be roasted alive before they reached the door of the foundry. “Simon,” she shouted, clinging to his lean waist, “On second thought…I’ve decided that you were right.”

“About what?” he asked, his gaze locked on the foundry entrance.

“This place is too dangerous for me!”

Simon bent and hoisted her over his shoulder, carrying her over toppled cranes and collapsed equipment, with his arm clamped tightly around her knees. Dangling helplessly, Annabelle saw bloody holes in his coat, and realized that the blast had embedded metal filings and splinters in his back as he had covered her with his body. Crossing obstacle after obstacle, Simon finally reached the triple-width doors and set Annabelle on her feet. He startled her by pushing her firmly toward someone, shouting for him to take her. Twisting, Annabelle discovered that Simon had given her over to Mr. Mawer. “Take her outside,” Simon commanded hoarsely. “Don’t stop until she’s completely clear of the building.”

“Yes, sir!” The shop manager seized Annabelle in an unbreakable hold.

As she was compelled forcibly toward the entrance, Annabelle looked back wildly at Simon. “What are you going to do?”