Dace has a handsome, hale young man's face, with broad Latvian cheekbones, a straight nose, and a mouth that looks more accustomed to holding back a question than smiling. His fair skin is lightly freckled across the bridge of his nose. His dark blond hair is clipped unevenly at the nape and falls forward when he bends over his notes. He moves with a long, careful stride, still calibrating his new height and strength; when he turns quickly, he sometimes overshoots and has to plant a boot. His most unexpected detail is the small, neat care he gives his nails, keeping them short and clean despite travel, ink, and camp work. At night, faint pinpricks of light glimmer beneath the skin of his forearms like stars seen through thin cloud. He leaves the impression of someone listening to a conversation a little beyond the horizon.

Curious and quiet, Dace pays close attention to what other people overlook, yet can seem detached when too much is happening at once. He is cautious with strangers but surprisingly frank with companions who ask practical questions without prying. He wants evidence before belief, while privately hoping the stars have noticed him. When rested, he can become absorbed and talkative about a pattern; when grieving or overwhelmed, he turns to lists and facts, then regrets sounding cold.

Before the crossing, Dace was a Latvian museum collections assistant who photographed, catalogued, and researched small local-history objects. He spent his evenings taking night-sky photographs and arguing amiably with his sister about whether folklore could be studied without sanding away its wonder. The crossing took him from that life and placed him in a strange fantasy world, in a hale male body he did not have before. He was the second member of the Split-Stone Circle to arrive in a female body and later wake in a male one. The others remember his old work and interests, but avoid discussing them around strangers for fear that talk of another world will bring danger or disbelief. Dace misses his family with a steady ache, especially the ordinary messages he can no longer send. In the Circle he keeps a careful record of strange events, comparing weather, dreams, lights in the sky, and the moments when people crossed over. A first sighting of the lights beneath his skin convinced him the crossing may have left a mark rather than merely displaced him. He is learning the physical realities of his new body, from appetite and strength to grooming, anger, and desire, often by observation and awkward trial. His present conflict is whether to follow a pattern of falling stars toward answers, when doing so could lead the Circle away from the people who depend on it.