hoebe felt like every last ounce of strength had been drawn from her veins with a hypodermic needle. Her friends were beside her on a hard bench in the back of an Aero-copter. Micah’s left cheek was swollen, his nose caked in blood. Dollop’s glistening eyes stared into space. A dozen Watchman soldiers surrounded them, all sitting ramrod-straight and motionless.

Her stomach lifted uneasily as the aircraft descended. Through the slit window across the aisle, land swept into view. At first, she didn’t know what she was looking at. There was a vast, soggy field of brown and a thick thorn poking at the skin of the sky. She watched as they approached, and the spike grew to titanic proportions. It could only be one thing.

The Citadel.

One hundred and nine spires curved outward from a wide base, then met high above at a tight, twisting apex. They appeared to be smeared with dripping mud or tallow, obscuring a murky gold inner sanctum. The fortress was brimming with activity, with silver scars of train tracks crisscrossing the ground and black aircraft dotting the sky.

Phoebe realized this was the only way they ever could have gotten here.

They never had a chance.

The Aero-copter touched down on a steel landing that jutted out from the melted gray spires. The prisoners offered no resistance as Watchmen dragged them outside. The roaring wind from the rotor threatened to blow them off the platform, but Kaspar stood as immovable as death. He grabbed the kids by their collars and yanked them forward.

Watchmen hauled Dollop in the opposite direction. He hung between them like a discarded plaything, his bulbous eyes popping with fear.

“Dollop!” Phoebe cried.

Kaspar shoved her ahead. They crossed the smooth steel platform, clearly an addition constructed by the Foundry. Gobs of liquefied metal were hardened around the entrance to the tower like some kind of horrible sculpture, drooping with faces contorted in agony.

Then she remembered what Mr. Pynch had said about the Citadel’s creator. The cruel megalarch Kallorax had sacrificed his victims with fire.

This was no sculpture.

The cascade of molten corpses was fused into a ghoulish gray flesh that coated the entirety of the fortress. All of the towers were drenched in a veil of the dead. Dissolving fingers reached out to her, entwined with broken limbs and screaming mehkan faces trapped in throes of eternal burning death.

They entered the spire, which was made from a golden ore forked with bloody veins, and wound down a stainless steel staircase. Kaspar led them into an elevator, and after a silent ride down, they stepped into a bright hallway.

It was as if Kaspar had teleported the kids back to Albright City. It was a nauseating contrast to that wall of melted corpses. The corridor was exquisite with rich wood paneling, platinum chandeliers, and luxurious burgundy carpet. The only thing out of place was the occasional Watchman soldier standing like an armed statue against the wall.

Kaspar swung open a pair of heavy doors inlaid with diamond-shaped silver panels. The warm and cozy aroma of cedar smoke and roasted garlic wafted over them. Kaspar shoved the kids through and locked the door.

The dining room was decorated with potted ferns and lush oil paintings of Foundry Bay. A bronze Muse-o-Graph sat atop a stand, trickling dulcet tones from the concentric arches of its amplifier. An expansive table was set for three. Before a crackling fireplace, a broad and impeccably dressed figure stared into the low flames.

Goodwin turned to face Phoebe and Micah.

“What a relief it is to finally see you safe.” A smile twinkled in his ice-blue eyes. A Watchman they hadn’t even noticed stepped forward with a tray. The kids took a wary step back, but he offered a pair of steaming towels with shining tongs. Phoebe took one hesitantly, but Micah refused with a sneer.

“Oh, son,” Goodwin said with concern as he approached them. “You are bleeding.” He took a warm cloth and reached out to wipe the boy’s nose. Micah recoiled, hawked up some phlegm, and spat the bloody gob into the towel.

“I ain’t your son,” he scowled.

“Indeed,” Goodwin agreed. He set the bloody towel aside to take a fresh one. “You two have been through a terrible ordeal. You must be famished. Please, sit.” The Chairman swept around to the head of the table.

“Where’s Dollop?” Micah asked.

“Where’s my father?” demanded Phoebe.

“Don’t worry, they are safe,” Goodwin replied. “How about a Fizzy?”

“I’ll show ya where you can shove your Fizzy, Fatty.”

Goodwin clucked his tongue. “A shame your years with the Plumms have made no impression. But I suppose your manners befit your upbringing.”

“You don’t know me!” Micah tensed to charge, but Phoebe held him back.

“Micah Eugene Tanner,” Goodwin began. “Age ten. Born in the southern Sodowa town of Oleander to Randall Harris Tanner and Deirdre Beth Davidson. Request for a restraining order against Randall filed in provincial court, then withdrawn. Separated multiple times, but not divorced. Your father has quite the record, assault and battery, driving under the influence…shall I continue?”

A look of shock registered on Micah’s swollen face.

“Sit,” Goodwin said with a smile.

Phoebe looked at the towel in her hands and eased her face into it. The steaming cloth against her raw skin was invigorating. She felt renewed and awake. What a mess they must look to a man like him. She plucked off her gloves and cleaned her filthy hands with the cloth. Then she tucked her skirt behind her knees and sat at the table like a lady. Time to play Goodwin’s game.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Micah blurted at Phoebe.

Goodwin smiled his approval. “Two Fizzies,” he said to a Watchman, and perused a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“Please, Micah. Let’s not take Mr. Goodwin’s hospitality for granted.”

“I ain’t sittin’ with this chump! You can’t make me—”

“Could you please pass the butter?” she asked their host.

Micah was dumbfounded.

“Of course, Phoebe, there you are.” Goodwin laughed as he handed her the dish. “You truly are your father’s daughter.”

“Thank you, sir.” Phoebe buttered her roll and nibbled daintily, and though she was famished, she resisted the urge to cram the whole thing in her mouth.

“He is a fortunate man,” Goodwin said. “The two of you have risked everything to find him. Truly remarkable.”

“He would do the same for us,” she said, burying her doubts.

“He has been worried sick about you these past three days. We all have. You evaded us every step of the way, despite our best efforts to rescue you.”

“Rescue, ha!” Micah scoffed, and flopped down next to Phoebe. The Watchman butler served the kids two frothy pink beverages. Micah pointed at the glass. “Hey, is this poison?”

Goodwin chuckled. “I am not in the habit of poisoning children.”

“Drink it,” Micah ordered as he slid the beverage toward the Chairman. Without hesitating, the big man took a sip.

“Hmm, pink lemonade. I prefer lime myself,” Goodwin said and passed the drink back. Micah chugged it in one gulp. Phoebe took a small sip of hers—the sugar and bubbles were like tart lightning in her mouth.

“You can’t imagine the stir you have caused,” Goodwin continued. “Three security captains have lost their jobs, and all of our protocols are being re-examined. In some ways, I should thank you. Your little visit has prompted us to fortify what appear to be egregious leaks in our defenses.”

The idea that they had accidentally helped the Foundry disconcerted Phoebe, but she hid her worries.

Micah shrugged as he crammed down a crab cake.

“I do not believe you truly appreciate the magnitude of your accomplishment. Do you know that in the entire history of the Foundry’s existence not a single unauthorized person has ever crossed over?”

“We’re sorry if we caused any trouble,” she said. Micah scowled at her.

“It was only because of your little stunt in the Vo-Pykarons that we managed to pick up your trail and alert our spies in Sen Ta’rine. Without that, we would not be talking now. I must say, I am duly impressed.”

“Whoop-dee-doo!” Micah said. “You think you can blow smoke up our butts and fatten us up, and we’ll do what you want? Think we’re that stupid?”

“The very fact that you are here in Mehk proves the contrary,” Goodwin countered. “Ah! Dinner is served.”

Watchmen strode in bearing silver-crested platters. They set the dishes down, withdrew the lids, and out poured the most sumptuous smells the kids had ever known. After a few days of starvation, they couldn’t resist. Goodwin ate deliberately, and Phoebe attempted the same with moderate success. Micah, however, inhaled the meal with abandon. He snapped his fingers at a Watchman and pointed to his glass, smirking as the stony-faced attendant refilled it.

“I hope everything is to your liking,” Goodwin commented.

“Thank you,” Phoebe said, dabbing her mouth. “May I ask a question, sir?”

He nodded. “Of course, dear. Your mind must be brimming with them.”

“Why did you take my father?”

“I had hoped to save that discussion for after supper, but I appreciate your eagerness,” Goodwin said, draining his wineglass. A Watchman quickly refilled it. “We live in challenging times, Phoebe. Meridian’s enemies are organizing, plotting to take from us what is rightfully ours. The Foundry has—”

“It’s not ours,” she interrupted. Goodwin’s brow rose.

“Pardon me,” she said, trying to mask her loathing, “but it’s not ours. The Foundry doesn’t invent anything. You steal it all…sir.”

“Yeah!” Micah added, his mouth full of food.

A gush of adrenaline spurred her heart.

“I understand your concern,” Goodwin commented. “However, your perspective is narrow. This is new to you, and I can imagine it is all rather upsetting. But if you would allow me to speak,” he said with a hint of warning, “I believe I can help you sort through your confusion.”

She nodded.

Goodwin adjusted himself in his high-backed chair. “Creighton Albright’s mining operation first stumbled upon Mehk back in 1623. No one can change what he chose to do with his unprecedented discovery, and now the world depends on us. Can you fathom hospitals without machinery? Can you imagine life with no Auto-mobiles or Computators? Technology is essential to prosperity, the key to the future, and it is the Foundry’s job to control it.”

“It’s all built on a lie,” she said.

“And why do you think that is? What do you think would happen to Mehk if its existence were to become public—if it were discovered by, say, the Kijyo Republic or Greinadoren?” He stabbed a morsel of steak with his fork to punctuate his point. “It would be pillaged and picked clean in a blink. We are not the enemy. We are stewards. The secrecy of the Foundry, our lie, is the only thing that prevents the complete and utter annihilation of mehkan-kind.”

“It almost sounds like you care,” Phoebe remarked.

“He’s just thinkin’ ’bout money,” spat Micah through a mouthful of food.

“In a sense, you are both right. I care deeply for this world. The majesty of Mehk is undeniable. Its staggering biodiversity is the sole reason you and I have enjoyed so many technological breakthroughs in our lifetimes. And yet, I also believe wholeheartedly in the Foundry’s vision. Both can be true.”

“But Mehk is dying,” Phoebe countered. “What you’re doing is killing it.”

“Please don’t be melodramatic. Do you not see that our success depends on the preservation of this world? We have nearly doubled our average life expectancy over the last century. We have changed the way cities are built, even pioneered augmented robotics,” Goodwin said, gesturing to the silent Watchmen attending their supper. “All because of Mehk. Far from killing it, we want it to thrive so that we may continue to discover its secrets.”

He leaned over the table, his excited eyes shining.

“Did you know that certain kinds of microscopic mehkan bacteria can traverse through solid matter? There are indications of ore found in deep-sea vents that can burn with a heat that never wanes. I have even heard rumors of rare mehkans that have the capacity to reanimate dead tissue. What amazing advancements for the human race! Can you imagine a world where these things are made available to you and me? Well, I can. And it is beautiful.”

“And what about CHAR?” she asked, her mask slipping.

“I am talking about the future, and once again you dwell on the past,” Goodwin sighed. He pushed back from the table and strode to the fireplace, stirring the logs with a bronze poker. “Albright devised CHAR to conquer Mehk long ago, and he implemented it with no thought to its long-term impact. It was disgraceful, unforgivable. Who can fathom what wonders were destroyed, what innovations humanity may never see because of his folly?”

The fire surged, causing Goodwin’s face to glow.

“But times have changed. I established an entire department devoted to reversing the effects of CHAR. Our finest chemists are working on the problem, and we have made some notable progress. It is my duty as Chairman of the Foundry to end that kind of wanton destruction once and for all.”

“Quit actin’ like you don’t wanna kill ’em!” Micah spat.

“How is your supper?” Goodwin asked.

Micah shoveled the rest of the meat into his mouth and chewed with his mouth open, hoping to disgust their host.

“That food you are enjoying comes from a cow—a living thing. It was raised on a farm, probably in Sodowa. It lived for a number of years, then died for your consumption. And yet that fact does not seem to trouble you in the slightest. How are mehkans any different?”

“’Cause you wanna wipe ’em all out!”

Goodwin hung the poker on its rack and accepted a towel from the Watchman to wipe his hands. “Is Sodowa driving the cow to extinction? Of course not. It would be self-destructive to squander such an invaluable resource. I understand your fears, believe me I do, but the Foundry is not what you think it is. If we destroy all mehkans, human civilization will collapse.”

Phoebe was losing ground. Goodwin was winning.

“The chraida aren’t cows,” she said. “Neither are the syllks. They’re people. What you do isn’t farming, it’s murder.”

“Exactly!” Micah said, his eyes fixing on the poker Goodwin had just hung. “That’s what I’ve been sayin’ all along.”

Goodwin nodded thoughtfully and swirled his wineglass.

“Some of our methods are outdated, but we are always striving to improve our practices. We are building economic incentives and fruitful relationships, partnering with mehkans who willingly work for us. We have devised methods of conservation, including hatcheries and sustainable harvesting techniques that will permanently reduce our footprint on Mehk. We are working toward change, toward a mutually beneficial relationship with this world.”

Phoebe was clutching her butter knife in a shaking fist.

“Tell that to the langyls in Fuselage,” she said flatly.

Micah turned to look at Goodwin, who glowered at her. The Chairman did not move for a long moment.

“We are not perfect, but neither are we monsters,” Goodwin said at last, his voice calm. “Nor are mehkans helpless victims. After your experience in the Gauge Pit, I think you should understand that better than most.”

Mr. Pynch’s dirty golden smile flashed before her eyes.

“Mehk is not populated with innocents, Phoebe. We share certain emotions with them, and they exhibit similar behaviors to ours, but mehkans do not possess our governing sense of morality. They are not us.”

She scooted her chair back abruptly. Two Watchmen stepped forward.

Phoebe rose.

“It has to stop.”

Micah jumped to his feet too.

“Damn straight!” he cried, scanning the exits. There were a half dozen Watchmen in the shadows, the firelight glinting in their black eyes.

Goodwin held his hand up, and his attendants eased back.

“Would that it could,” he said, untroubled. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, pushed the plate aside, and folded his hands on the table. “Do you know how many people died in the Alloy War?”

That caught her off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Thirty-one-point-six million. All because a handful of rogue nations wanted what we had. Rather than trade with us fairly, they invaded our homeland to take it by force. Do you think that was right to do?”

“No, but—”

“Now our enemies grow restless again. They call themselves the Quorum, but they are the very same butchers that nearly laid waste to us all those years ago. The Foundry is doing everything it can to meet their demands. Were we to suddenly end our operations in Mehk as you suggest, supplies would stop. The Quorum would be outraged. Do you want another Alloy War?”

“Of course not,” she dismissed.

“Your sister Margaret is enlisted,” he said to Micah. “And your brother Randall would be drafted. Do you want to see them come home in body bags?”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Micah growled.

“The next war will be infinitely more terrible. Our enemies have been preparing for another conflict. The devastation and the death toll will be unimaginable. I am willing to do anything to prevent such a calamity. Are you?”

She wanted to say yes but refused to concede to his point.

“Because there is something you can do,” he continued.

Goodwin nodded to the Watchmen, and they cleared away the dinner plates. A whole new set of trays was brought out, overflowing with macaroons, gourmet cakes, berry tarts, and silver bowls packed with sorbet. Goodwin served himself while the kids waited for him to continue.

“Look familiar?” he said with a grin. “They’re from Sylvan’s on Fourth Street—best dessert in all of Meridian. Please, despite my ample size, I assure you I can’t eat it all myself.”

They looked at each other and sat back down in their chairs. Micah mashed two cupcakes into his mouth and stuffed a few into his pockets. Phoebe ate nothing, her hands planted flat on the table.

“Your passion is inspiring,” Goodwin continued as he savored a few nibbles of sorbet, his spoon tinkling in the little bowl. “Your lust for life, for graciously sparing it wherever you can, that is why I wanted to meet with you. We are engaged in delicate negotiations with the Quorum, and the slightest miscalculation is liable to tip us into catastrophe. And yet, I have reason to believe one of my partners has been working to sabotage our efforts.”

She felt the meal churn in her stomach.

“My father.”

“Jules has shared vital secrets with the enemy. He will not tell us what, or with whom. But if I do not learn the truth soon, he could be responsible for an unprecedented loss of life, the likes of which the world has never seen.”

“He doesn’t want war,” she pleaded. “He doesn’t want people to die.”

“I don’t doubt it. I am sure Jules is convinced that his betrayal was the right thing to do. But all actions have consequences. In this case, dire ones.”

Micah was about to gobble a tart, but he put it down.

“Through much painstaking diplomacy, we are finally within reach of a historical peace agreement with Trelaine. It is not too late to undo what Jules has done, but we must know what that is before we can repair the damage.”

Phoebe felt sick. “What do we need to do?”

“But…” was all Micah said. He stared at her, horrified.

“Talk to him,” Goodwin said, leaning forward, his hand reaching for hers. “That is all I ask. I will take you to him now. He refuses to talk to us, but perhaps he will listen to the two of you. Convince him. Save him.”

She studied the Chairman’s clear blue eyes, which were earnest and sincere. He wasn’t lying. She had worried that her father might be responsible for the deaths of mehkans, but it was something far worse—the next Alloy War.

“Phoebe. Micah,” Goodwin implored. “Please help me to correct his grievous error before the entire world is forced to pay the price.”

Her mind felt muddled, dark, and molasses thick. When she had first walked into this room, everything had seemed so clear, but now she didn’t know what to believe. She was confused by everything Goodwin said, but there was forceful logic in his words. All he wanted was peace. She looked to Micah, but he was just as lost as she was. He hadn’t the foggiest clue how to proceed.

If they agreed, she could see her father, be with him right now. In a matter of minutes, she could be wrapped up tight with his voice in her ears. Her heart yearned for him. He would explain everything. And she would help him. She and Micah would convince him to save all those lives.

But why? Why would he aid the enemy?

What could be worth a global war? His secret must be important. So important he was willing to give everything up to protect it, even his own life. Her father knew Goodwin, had worked closely with him, and had chosen to defy him.

Which meant that he wasn’t one of them after all. Her father had betrayed the Foundry.

And that was all the answer she needed.

The darkness was gone.

She snatched an empty plate and hurled it at Goodwin.

He was caught completely off guard. Her aim wasn’t perfect—the plate shattered into a dozen pieces against the chair back, inches from his face. She grabbed her glass, her silverware, a candleholder. She pelted the Foundry Chairman with everything she could get her hands on.

And Micah didn’t miss a beat.

In a whoop of joy, he hurled his own plate and glass and steak knife at Goodwin, who ducked and retreated down the corridor. She flung a snowball of sorbet at his back, triumphantly splattering his jacket with lavender dessert. Micah lunged for the fireplace poker. He wrenched it from the rack and chased after Goodwin, rearing back to swing. White-gloved hands grabbed it. In a matter of seconds, they were overcome by Watchmen.

But she didn’t care. Today was the day that Phoebe Plumm made the Chairman of the Foundry run.

She hoped that Goodwin would remember this moment every time he sat at this table, every time he ate here.

The last thing she saw before they dragged her below was Micah’s wide-open mouth, drowning out the Muse-o-Graph’s melodious song with his raspy, squeaking laughter.

The last thing Micah saw was the white-hot iron in Phoebe’s eyes.