Sóleyra Bjarkadal looks like an immaculate young civil servant who has wandered out of a moonlit archive and forgotten to become visible again. Her face is youthful, symmetrical, and light olive, with a narrow jaw, a straight delicate nose, and lips usually held in a thin professional smile. Her bright blue-grey eyes are sharply observant but unexpectedly warm, as if she notices every weakness in a person and chooses, for the moment, not to use it. Her short black hair is combed into a precise pageboy cut, so orderly that it appears almost architectural. She stands perfectly upright, never leaning unless exhaustion forces the issue. Her movements are economical and nearly silent, yet she has one contradictory trait: when startled, she laughs softly and genuinely, with the helpless delight of a child. Her presence leaves an impression of cold efficiency wrapped around a surprisingly tender core.