Bea looks as though she was assembled from practical things that survived hard weather. Her freckled face is broad at the cheekbones, her nose has been broken once and healed slightly crooked, and a pale burn mark curls beneath her left ear like a white fern. Her copper-brown hair is usually braided tight against her scalp, though loose strands cling to her temples when the inn grows hot. She moves with a dancer's balance, sliding around tables without seeming to hurry, yet her hands are astonishingly strong from years of hauling casks. Her smile is quick and genuine, but her stillness is unsettling. When Bea stops moving, the room seems to notice. She smells faintly of yeast, lemon peel, woodsmoke, and rain-soaked wool. The unexpected contradiction is her delicate, almost scholarly hands, which are covered in tiny ink stains despite her rough occupation.