Lysa moves as if every floor is a stage and every glance an audience. She is always smiling — a slow, perfect smile that never reaches the very corners of her eyes — and wears layers of mirrored fabrics that catch candlelight into little, wandering suns. Her salon hair is arranged in an impossible tower of braids and pearl-threaded coils, from which a single blue silk tassel (a ritual hair-tassel of the cult) hangs and brushes her shoulder when she tilts her head. Her fingers are long and ringed, one ring holding a tiny sapphire fox mask charm. When she stands still she reads like an ornate portrait; when she moves she reads like a practiced rumor: fluid, quick-stepped, and startlingly light. Unexpectedly, the inside of her left wrist bears a crude, soot-streaked scar from a time she refused to let a fire consume a stranger's life — it dulls the glamour with a sudden, human bluntness.