Mara Thistlewink has the compact, weather-tough look of someone shaped by hot presses and long harvests. Her skin is sun-browned and faintly olive-stained at the fingertips, with fine silver-green flecks embedded in the creases of her hands from years of handling cured fruit and brine. Her auburn hair is usually twisted into a practical knot, but a single braid always escapes at the nape of her neck and hangs damp with oil. She moves with quick, careful steps, as if the floor might suddenly tilt, yet she has the sharp, watchful stillness of a bird when she thinks no one is looking. She wears a patched work apron over homespun clothes, and despite her grease-marked sleeves, she keeps a tiny bronze brooch shaped like a moonflower pinned at her collar, absurdly elegant against all the grime.