Perrin moves like a spring compressing and releasing: quick, economical, and faintly musical. He wears a stained leather apron peppered with tiny pockets and brass rings; copper filings cling to the cuffs of his sleeves. His hands are ink-stained and callused at the fingertips from wirework. He habitually leans into conversations as if listening for a loose gear. Unexpectedly, he keeps one shoulder dotted with soot and the other dusted with flour — evidence of nights spent both at a forge and at a baker’s oven. When still he hums an off-tempo lullaby; when excited his feet shuffle high and fast like a fiddler's. He smells faintly of pine resin and lemon oil.