Mirel looks like a village child who has wandered out of a prayer and into a thunderstorm. She is small even for seven, all elbows and delicate wrists, with a mop of red hair that never lies flat and seems to catch stray light in copper threads. Her deep blue eyes are unnervingly steady, bright as river ice under moonlight, and they often seem to be watching something just behind a person's shoulder. She wears a faded light blue peasant dress patched at the hem in three different shades of cloth, and simple sandals dusted with road grit. A strange aura of drifting pale sparks, warm mist, and the faint scent of rain follows her by half a step. The contradiction that makes people remember her is that she carries herself with grave, almost royal stillness, but breaks into skipping laughter when she spots snails, ribbon, or fresh bread.