Mira moves with the quick, efficient gestures of someone used to juggling hot glass, boiling herbs and impatient customers. She is often seen with faint burn scars along the side of her left hand and a thin smear of chem-patina along her forearm where acids have marred her skin in a lattice of pale cicatrices. Her apron is a patchwork of soot-darkened linen and neatly stitched pockets; when she walks the countless little brass tags attached to her belt tinkle faintly, like tiny chiming measures. Unexpectedly, she wears an immaculate, embroidered silk scarf—an heirloom—tied carefully around her neck, at odds with the rest of her utilitarian look. Her movements are brisk but deliberate: she talks with her hands, setting jars down with a practiced palm-thud that speaks of both care and impatience.