Jack Dredge had drawn the machine forty times and built it once. It sat on his workbench at Curio Inks, a needle rig wrapped in brass gears, meant to etch enchanted ink that could grant its wearer one wish. He had the parts. He had the design. He had never once seen enchanted ink move on real skin, so he was guessing at everything that mattered. He leaned over the old book on its stand, the pages brown and cracked. Its notes described a clockwork tattoo mechanism and the ink it fed. But the book showed no color, no flow, no proof. Jack crossed his tattooed arms and stared at the diagram. "You tell me what to build," he said to it, "and nothing about what it does." The bell over the door rang. Cho Cogsmith stepped in, goggles pushed up his forehead, trinkets clinking at his belt. Jack's shoulders dropped an inch. Cho was the one man in this city who traded in things nobody else could name, and the one friend who never oversold him. "You look like a man who lost an argument with furniture," Cho said. He set a small wooden box on the bench. "I need to see enchanted ink work," Jack said. "A real sample. Otherwise I'm building blind." Cho opened the box. Inside sat a glass vial of ink the color of wet slate. It caught the lamplight and held it, glowing faint after the lamp moved away. Jack went still. "Where." "Estate sale. Sold as a pair with a broken pen." Cho turned the vial slowly. "The seller swore it was the genuine article. I believed him about half." Jack took the vial. The ink shifted inside like it had weight of its own. He tilted his head toward the cabinet of ordinary pots along the wall, every muted brown and green he owned. None of them did this. "I'll pay you for it," Jack said. "You'll test it first." Cho pulled a stool near. "On yourself. I want to watch." Jack rolled his sleeve past the crowded ink on his forearm. He loaded a plain needle, dipped it, and drew a short line above his wrist. The mark went in gray. Then it warmed, brightened, and pulled the light in from the room. For three seconds the line glowed like a coal. Then it faded to a dull scar and sat there, doing nothing at all. Both men stared at it. "It works," Jack said. "For three seconds. Then it dies." "The machine has to keep it alive," Cho said. Jack turned the near-empty vial. Two lines' worth of ink remained, maybe three. He now knew what he was building toward. He also knew he would burn through this sample long before the machine was ready. "I need more," Jack said. "And this is the only vial in the city."