Cordelia Bristlecraft wanted her chihuahua to talk. Not bark. Talk. She had spent three nights bent over her workbench, drawing a collar that could turn the little dog's thoughts into words. The plan needed a clockwork core to drive the tiny voice reeds. Tonight she held that core in her palm, and it ruined everything. The core was the size of a walnut. Her chihuahua was twelve years old and weighed less than a loaf of bread. Cordelia had already built the collar itself, a band of dark gold filigree stitched with fine gears. She set the core against it and lifted the whole thing. The weight dragged her hand down. No dog this small could carry it. The old girl would strain her neck in an hour. Cordelia set the core down and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She had borrowed against her tools to open this shop. She had learned dogs by watching them, not by giving up on them. But she could not shrink a core she did not know how to make. The shop bell rang. Cho Cogsmith pushed through the door, goggles shoved up in his hair, a strange gadget turning in one hand. He ran the curiosity shop and never stopped asking questions. He was also the one friend who answered when she knocked at odd hours. "You look like a dog that lost a bone," he said. "What are you building? Show me. Is that a collar? Why so grim about a collar?" Cordelia held up the core. "Too big. Too heavy. Everything I make now weighs more than she does." Cho took the core, weighed it, frowned. Then he grinned. "It's not the core. It's the wire inside. Whoever wound this used cheap coarse wire. Thick wire wastes room and wastes power." He pulled a spool from his coat. The strand caught the lamplight, thin as a hair. "Fine wire. I've watched three people rebuild cores with it. Half the size. Half the drain." Cordelia's heart jumped, then steadied. "You're sure?" "I'm sure it worked for a bird and a dirigible," Cho said. "A dog is smaller than both." She took the spool. Her hands knew this work. She cracked the core open, stripped the fat old wire, and wound the fine strand around the spindle, close and even. It took an hour. When she finished, the core had shrunk to the size of a thimble. She fit it into the gilded collar. She lifted the band. It rested in her palm light as a coin. Cordelia let out a breath she'd held for three nights. "It'll fit her," she said. Cho leaned in. "So now the collar's light enough. But does it actually make her talk?" Cordelia looked at the small, silent band. She had solved the weight. She had no idea yet if it would find a single word.