Maeric moves with the careful economy of someone who has spent decades among scrolls and staircases. He is rarely still: his hands unconsciously trace imaginary glyphs as he thinks; his shoulders stoop from years bent over codices. He favors a long, oil-slicked overcoat with narrow sleeves that hide ink-stained cuffs and a collapsible brass reading monocle. Unexpectedly, he wears a polished soldier's gauntlet on his left hand — dented, too small, and embroidered inside with a child's threadwork name. When he walks the palace stacks he seems to listen to the books as much as to the air, pausing if a page murmurs beneath his floorboards. Up close his fingers are papery and precise; his smile, when it appears, is quick and a little dry.