Sella Underbough moves like a woman who has learned to make herself narrow in doorways and unforgettable in torchlight. She is lean and rope-boned, with sun-browned skin, long hands nicked by dockwork, and a posture that seems half-ready to flee and half-ready to laugh. Her dark hair is cut unevenly to her jaw, but one temple is braided with copper thread and tiny river shells that click softly when she turns her head. Her left ear bears a crescent-shaped bite scar, and her right boot has been deliberately rebuilt three times with different leathers, so she walks with a faint uneven tap that sounds almost like a metronome. The most surprising thing about her is the immaculate white collar she wears beneath her rough coat, as if she is either mockingly noble or secretly devoted to a vanished chapel.