Bremark looks as if he and his coat have long ago merged into one working instrument: the brown wool is patched with metal plates, singe-marks and glass vials stitched into inner pockets. His face is pocked from small burns and a faint scar curls like a question mark beneath his left eye. He moves with small, deliberate hunches — the gait of someone whose attention flits between the ground and a dozen invisible equations. When he walks he often carries a bent copper rod tucked under an elbow and a leather satchel that smells faintly of citrus and ozone. Unexpectedly, his left index finger is polished nearly white from use on the same small brass dial for years, as if he absentmindedly keeps finding the same setting that comforts him.