A compact heap of motion and color sitting on a low stool beside a wheeled wagon piled seven layers high with bolts and bundles of cloth. She wears cloth wrapped like a mosaic: mismatched swatches forming a rough patchwork cloak over a sturdy wool coat. Her hands are ink-stained on one palm and thread-burned on the other. Her face is a map of laugh lines and a faint burn scar across the left cheek that she covers by tilting her head, which makes one eye catch the light brighter than the other. Her feet are always bare, tidy, and surprisingly fast when she needs to move. Unexpectedly, she keeps a single brass monocle that she never wears but fiddles with when thinking, as if admiring a memory rather than using it to see.