Lysa moves with the smooth efficiency of someone who has walked between counting houses and workshop floors for decades. Her posture is upright like a ruler on a table, her steps measured and quiet. She favors fitted robes and waistcoats that have been patched with fine engineering silk where tools have nicked them. Her hands are ink-stained at the fingertips and know the exact weight of a coin before she looks. Contradictory to her polished demeanor she keeps a single soot-smudged leather apron folded beneath her chair and a tiny brass mechanical bird pinned inside her collar that chirps a ledger chime once every hour.