Seris moves like someone used to being watched: slow, deliberate steps with a dancer's lightness and the small, careful gestures of a card player revealing a hand. Her face is a long oval set with a permanent, soft half-smile; lines at the corners of her eyes betray years of laughter and sleepless nights. She wears an embroidered crescent of silver thread braided into her left eyebrow and keeps a small, smoky crystal tucked under her tongue when she intends to work. Her fingers are stained faintly with indigo from dyeing cloth and with a thin white scar over her right knuckle she covers with a stack of rings. Contradiction clings to her: she favors gaudy scarves and beads, yet her clothes are always immaculate, as if someone invisible irons the creases away. When she speaks, she leans forward slightly, as if sharing both a secret and a warning.