Rhodren Vale carries himself like a man trying to keep a river dammed with his bare hands. He is lean, weathered, and always a little damp around the cuffs, as if he has just come in from the fields or the account house. His movements are efficient but tired, with a habit of pausing one beat too long before sitting, as though his joints are negotiating with him. He has the strange contradiction of immaculate fingers and mud-stained boots, because he keeps his ledgers spotless while his work pulls him into every ditch, granary, and roadside quarrel in the village. When he is anxious, he folds his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels like a patient schoolmaster, but when anger slips through, it flashes hot and immediate in the set of his jaw.