Mirabel stands a little taller than most halflings, with a compact, energetic presence like a wind-up toy that never quite winds down. Her face is heart-shaped, freckled across the bridge of a small, upturned nose; laugh lines fan from her eyes even when she is frowning. She arranges her dark clothing with meticulous ease: collarbones always framed, sleeves cuffed to show a slender bracelet of woven silver thread — her mother's wedding thread. Her hands are quick and expressive, always in motion when she speaks: a gesture here, a palm that pats a forearm there. She moves with a diplomat's balance: never too close, never too far, feet light and precise. Unexpectedly, she keeps one boot perpetually scuffed and patched on the outside with mismatched leather — a silent proof she has once walked through mud for something she believed worth the stain.