Mira Reed moves with the compact assurance of someone who has spent equal measures of time on the road and behind a counter. Her forearms are corded and scarred, veins like taut ropes beneath skin the color of baked cider. She wears a patchwork leather apron that smells faintly of smoke and pickling spices. Her hair is cropped short at the nape but long enough on top to curl stubbornly into a small, untidy wave that she tucks behind one ear when serving. Her left cheek bears a pale crescent scar that interrupts a laugh line, a souvenir from a dockside knife. Unexpectedly, she keeps a small, polished wooden music box chained beneath her apron that she winds on the rare quiet hours; the tune is tinny and out of place in a rough tavern, and she always looks faintly embarrassed if someone notices it.