Merrin moves like someone who has spent a life reaching for things from low shelves and high windows: quick, coaxing, and habitually bent at the waist. He is always brushed with a faint dusting of powdered mica that catches lamplight and makes him look, for a moment, like a living constellation when he steps under a lantern. He favors layered vests with innumerable inner pockets; their hems are frayed but carefully darned. His left thumb bears a narrow, silvery burn scar in a swirling shape — an emblem he refuses to explain. Unexpectedly, his left eye twitches into a tiny wink when he tells the truth, which gives his otherwise calm face an oddly mischievous asymmetry.