Maribel Thorne is all quick hands and measured steps, a woman who looks as if she has spent half her life in a saddle and the other half counting coin by lantern light. Her skin is weathered to a warm, rain-brushed tan, with a fine scatter of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair is chestnut brown shot through with a single silver streak at the left temple, usually braided tight and pinned up so it will not catch on harness buckles. Her eyes are an amber hazel that seem soft until she starts appraising a bargain, when they sharpen like a tack blade. She is just under average height, with a compact, sturdy build and strong forearms corded from lifting axles, feed sacks, and stubborn saddles. She wears a deep green riding coat lined in fox fur, a leather apron full of hidden pockets, and polished boots that are always dusted with road grit despite her best efforts. The unexpected detail is the tiny ivory teacup charm hanging from her belt, absurdly delicate beside her grease-stained tools. She smells faintly of hay, lamp oil, cinnamon, and winter metal.