Tara Cinder is a compact human woman with the dense, weathered posture of someone who has spent decades leaning into bad weather. Her movements are economical and abrupt, like a knife being folded shut. Silver spectacles perch low on her nose, their lenses often filmed with rain or woodsmoke, and her severe green cloak hangs from her shoulders like a strip of forest shadow. Mud is always dried along the same left hem, even after she changes clothes or travels over clean roads. Her hands are small, square, and permanently roughened by ink, cold water, and fence repairs. She leaves behind an impression of stern competence, yet when she laughs, which is rare, her whole face becomes unexpectedly youthful and warm.