A portly, waddling figure wrapped in layered waistcoats and heavy brocade coats that smell faintly of pipe tobacco and sea brine. Garrin favors brass — he wears a band of nested rings along the knuckles of his left hand that jingle like small bells when he writes. His leather folio is never far from his hip, fat with receipts and clipped seals. He moves with the slow, deliberate gait of a man who has negotiated his way out of worse squeezes than a cobbled alley; yet when excited his hands skitter like fish, counting and rearranging invisible ledgers. Unexpectedly, he keeps one shoulder perpetually squared as if bearing an invisible crate, a carryover from years of supervising docks. He also has a habit of brushing his chin as though checking for stubble, though he is always clean-shaven.