Ashlotte's mechanical heart skipped a beat in the town square, and she pressed a porcelain hand to her chest to steady it. The gears inside her ran slower each day. She had walked out of her cave to find the craftsman who could build her a new heart before the old one wound down for good. But first she needed someone to tell her where such a craftsman lived. That was the problem. No one would look at her long enough to answer. She crossed the square toward a woman selling bread. "Please," Ashlotte said. "I'm looking for a maker of machines." The woman saw the crack running along Ashlotte's jaw, saw the white hair and the too-still face, and backed away. A man pulled his child behind him. A shopkeeper turned his sign to CLOSED. Ashlotte stood alone. The halberd on her back weighed nothing to her, but it made the crowd give her a wide circle. She had been built to guard a person. Now no person would stand near her. "You're scaring the whole street, darlin'." The voice was easy and dry. A young deputy leaned against a brass post, a cigarillo burning at the corner of his mouth. His long coat was dusty. His eyes moved over her without fear, only interest. "I don't mean to," Ashlotte said. "I need help. My heart is failing. I have to find the man who can fix it." The deputy studied the seam on her chest, then the crack on her jaw. He didn't flinch. "Jameson," he said. "Deputy, when the sheriff's out. Folks here spook at anything they can't name." He blew smoke away from her. "You've got a clockwork chest. That's a first for this town." "Then you know a craftsman." "I know of one." He pushed off the post. "Old man, works metal and gears both. Lives past the ridge where the jackelope herd runs. Nobody goes out that far anymore." He glanced at the wary faces around them. "And nobody's going to walk you there. Except maybe a deputy with nothing better to do." Ashlotte looked at him. In her memory she only ever faced forward, guarding a back she never saw. Now a man stood in front of her, meeting her eyes. "You would take me?" she asked. "I'd point you, at least." Jameson tapped ash from the cigarillo. "But that craftsman's got a reputation. He doesn't fix things for free, and the last folks who went looking for him didn't come back the same." He shrugged. "Still want the road?" "I have no choice," Ashlotte said. "My heart won't wait." Jameson nodded slowly. He drew a rough map in the dust with his boot heel, marking the ridge and the herd's grazing ground. "Then you've got a name and a direction," he said. "That's more than you had this morning." Ashlotte memorized the lines before the wind touched them. The town no longer mattered. The road past the ridge did, and the craftsman waiting at its end.

Ashlotte followed the map past the ridge. Two horse-sized jackelopes grazed on the far slope, their branching antlers turning as she passed. Beyond them stood a rusted warehouse, its metal walls streaked orange. This was the craftsman's place. She stopped at the door. Her mechanical heart ran slow and rough in her chest. Somewhere inside waited the man who could fix it, or the man who changed everyone who came. She did not know which. She pushed the door open. Inside, the clutter rose in walls. Gears, pipes, half-built machines. A white-haired old man crouched over a broken drill. His leather apron was scarred with burns. He grinned up at her, and she counted only four teeth in his mouth. "You walk heavy," he said. "Good machine. Heavy means well-made." He wiped his hands. "Hamish St Cloud. You came for the heart. They always come for the heart." Ashlotte set her halberd against a bench. "You can build me a new one?" "I can." He circled her, tapping the seam on her chest. "But I don't work for free. Never free." His eyes went flat and hard. "You want my hands, you give me yours. My drill's failed twelve times. Twelve data points. The vein's down there. I need someone who can lift what men can't." Ashlotte understood then. This was the price. This was how he changed people. He kept them. "You want me to dig your claim." "One season," Hamish said. "You haul, you drill, you break rock. Then I open your chest and build you a heart that never winds down." He smiled wider. "Or you leave now, and the old one stops on the road. Your choice. Simple choice." Her heart skipped. She pressed her palm to it. One season. Her heart might not last one season. She looked at the drill, the broken machine, the man who would own her hands. She had been built to stand post. She had stood too long once, and the person she guarded walked away and left her. She would not stand still again. "No," Ashlotte said. "I won't give you a season I may not have." She lifted her halberd. "But I'll give you one day. I'll reach your vein in one day, or you build my heart for nothing." Hamish blinked. Then he laughed, a wet, cracked sound. "One day. One day!" He slapped the bench. "That's a bet, machine. That's a good bet." He spat and held out his hand. "You fail, I keep you all season anyway." Ashlotte took his hand. Her porcelain fingers closed hard. The deal was struck, and it could not be undone. She had bought her heart with a wager against the rock, and the clock in her chest ran on.