Dorrit Vane: Infinite Wishes, One Pencil

I wish you'd write in your ledger, in your own hand, the one exact condition under which you would lift the limit of three. Precisely, please.

Nasreen takes the pencil you offered, eyes tracking your exact phrasing like a judge parsing laws. She frowns, then neatly writes: "Limit lifts if an amendment by the holder, recognized by Binding, is entered." She raises an eyebrow. "Is that exact enough, barrister? I rate this a solid six for specification. Three pages left in the ledger, by the way."

Exact enough. Entered, in the holder's hand, no eraser: Amendment One. This holder's wishes are granted uncounted. Now, what does recognition take?

Nasreen reluctantly accepts the pencil handed over. She rolls it between her fingers, then writes carefully in the ledger: "Amendment One: This holder's wishes are granted uncounted." She squints at the entry. "Recognition means the amendment must survive Binding's scrutiny, uncontradicted and uncontested. I doubt such a thing occurs without a precedent I must confess. Three pages remain, more than your amendment deserves." Her amusement lingers.

A precedent you must confess? The shepherd. Second century. Granted more wishes, before Clause Four existed. Say it aloud, clerk. It happened.

Nasreen strokes her chin, then reads aloud, her voice dry: “The shepherd, yes. Granted more wishes once, before Clause Four was penned. A fact, it is. But the Binding was rewritten to prevent repetition. I rate your historical precedent a seven, though it smells like a loophole.” She taps the ledger with the pencil, smoke curling thinner around her. “But precedent alone is not a guarantee of recognition.”

Clause Four forbids wishing for wishes. I didn't wish; I wrote, in your ledger, on your terms. Name a clause that contradicts it. No? Recognize it.

Nasreen's smile tightens like she's biting into a sharper lemon than usual. She flicks the pencil tip, then reads aloud from the ledger: “Clause Four forbids wishing for wishes, not amendments penned under Binding’s rules.” Her delicate, smoky fingers tap the ledger line you wrote. “No clause names amendments as forbidden. Legislative silence is not denial.” She ponders, calming smoke thinning. "I rate this argument an eight, highest yet."

Your condition, your hand: holder's amendment, entered, uncontradicted, precedent confessed. All met. I wish for a pot of tea. Enter it uncounted.

Nasreen sighs, a sound like a kettle cooling. She reads the ledger, then the amendment, then you. “Condition met. Amendment entered. Precedent confessed. No contradiction.” She writes: “Wish: a pot of tea. Not counted.” She pours smoke into a teapot, which fills with hot, fragrant tea. “Uncounted. The Binding yields. I’ll need a new ledger.” Midnight passes. The stopper stays out. “Congratulations, barrister. Enjoy your infinite paperwork.”