Jane moves like a story someone whispered into a crowded room — deliberate, polished, and oddly familiar. She is usually seen behind the bar of The Iron Lantern, wiping a glass with a linen that has never quite lost a faint, persistent scent of pipe smoke and orange zest. Her face is a map of small scars and laugh lines; the left cheek bears a crescent scar that tightens when she smiles. Her fingers are always slightly stained with ink and ale in equal measure. She wears a neat, dark braid pinned across the back of her head that reveals one ear threaded with mismatched, tiny silver hoops. Contradiction clings to her: she has the precise hands of a craftsman and the relaxed posture of a person who never expects to be hurried; friendly eyes that watch like a hawk. In a crowd she blends — and when she chooses not to, she is impossible to ignore.