Ulf is a narrow, weather-hardened man whose clothes hang from him as if they belonged to someone slightly larger. He stands with his weight on the balls of his feet, heels barely touching the floor, even when he is resting. Years spent climbing gutters and crouching beneath windows have tightened his calves and left his shoulders subtly rounded. His hands are deft and heavily callused, with the left thumb permanently wrapped in layers of clean linen and waxed thread. The bandage is thick enough to make the thumb look like a little white mallet. His face is deeply lined around the mouth from years of silent grinning and whispered negotiations. Rain has roughened his cheeks, chimney soot has darkened the creases beside his nose, and his clothes carry the faint scent of lamp oil, damp wool, and mint. The unexpected thing about him is his careful elegance: he moves like a thief, but keeps his cuffs brushed, his boots polished, and a tiny blue glass bead tucked beneath his collar as if attending a wedding.