Rilla moves like a practiced pickpocket and a stagehand at once: quick, economical motions, always reaching but never clumsy. She stands on the balls of her feet as if the ground is always about to give way, and her hands are never still—sorting a bead, weighing a coin, adjusting a strap—so that the clutter around her seems alive. Her wagon is a compact riot of crates, jars, nets of curios, a fold-out loom, and a hidden compartment lined in patched velvet. An unexpected detail: built into her belt is a small, nicely polished child's wooden horse—clearly loved—tied with a neat ribbon and used as a ruler and bargaining talisman. When stationary, she leans forward, head cocked, like a listener waiting for gossip payment. When walking she hurries in short, precise bursts that belie an old injury in her right ankle, favoring it when tired but never using it as an excuse.