Cassia Morelle is an impeccably dressed human woman in her late thirties, with the composed silhouette of a portrait that has learned to walk. Her indigo velvet coat has a deep, almost blue-black nap that drinks in lamplight, while its silver clasps are shaped like interlocking gears surrounding a tiny fountain. Her dark hair is drawn into an intricate polished braid, each segment pinned with narrow brass needles engraved with estate names. Pristine leather gloves conceal ink-stained fingertips and a crescent scar across her left palm. She moves with smooth, economical precision, never wasting a gesture, yet her right shoulder gives a faint, involuntary twitch whenever someone mentions a foreclosed orchard. Her dark eyes burn with cold concentration during negotiations, but in private they become startlingly gentle. The contradiction is unsettling: despite her immaculate, aristocratic presentation, the hem of her coat is always dusted with orchard soil that no servant is permitted to brush away.