A tidy contradiction: she moves with the quiet, careful steps of someone who has spent decades avoiding waking sleeping masters and children, yet her presence fills a room like warm steam. Her skin carries the faint sheen of constant polish and soap. She keeps her tools close at hand in a battered leather belt pouch. When she works she hums an old lullaby under her breath, and when she looks at someone her smile is small and slow, as if remembering something private. Unexpectedly, she wears a small carved wooden charm of a family crest at her throat, wrapped in black thread despite her outward neatness.