Mireille is an utterly unassuming human woman with mousy brown hair cut into a plain, functional bob and hazel eyes that seem to lose focus whenever attention turns toward her. She keeps her shoulders rounded and her chin lowered, moving with the careful, frictionless gait of someone accustomed to passing between desks without disturbing a single sheet of paper. Her hands are the most striking part of her, narrow and remarkably nimble, with ink permanently settled into the creases around her nails. She has a faint scar across her upper lip, usually mistaken for a wrinkle, and a habit of standing so still that people sometimes begin speaking in front of her as though she were furniture. The contradiction is in her face: when startled, her expression becomes startlingly open and almost childlike, making the cold precision of her later decisions seem impossible.