Short and plump with a posture that suggests both perpetual curiosity and the tendency to carry too many books at once. Mirelle moves with small, precise steps, as if navigating the air between sentences; when excited, she paces in tight circles and snaps a quill behind one ear. Her robe collars are often dusted with chalk and powdered mica from shelving charms. Unexpectedly, she wears a battered brass monocle perched above her left eyebrow that magnifies nothing and only slides down when she squints — a habit from a past injury she never quite repaired properly. Her hands are ink-stained at the fingertips, and the inside hem of her robe contains dozens of tiny stitched pockets, each labeled in neat, cramped handwriting.