Short and brisk, Maris moves like a person who has measured her days in contracts and cart ruts. Her skin is patterned with thin, pale scars at the knuckles from years of sealing boxes and signing receipts. She keeps her hair in a tight, practical bun, and strands of silver braid through the black like the edges of ledgers. Her eyes flick and index like a clerk checking columns. She favors heavy, small rings on two fingers, each with an engraving of a caravan sigil acquired from an old partner. Unexpectedly, Maris wears a child's ribbon tied secretly inside her apron pocket, bright blue and slightly frayed; it softens the austere lines of her face when she glances at it.