Mara Vey is a narrow, long-limbed woman whose movements have the careful economy of someone perpetually walking across thin ice. Her face is handsome in a severe, tired way, with a small hooked nose, wind-chapped lips, and a pale scar running from the corner of her mouth to her jaw. Her skin has the dry, warm texture of old parchment, though faint ember-red lines appear beneath it whenever she invokes an infernal clause. Her hair is braided tightly against her skull, but several silver curls have escaped and refuse to stay pinned. She smells of lamp oil, iron ink, and cinnamon. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: despite her intimidating reputation, they are soft, meticulously groomed, and decorated with tiny painted flowers beneath the nails. She leaves behind the impression of a locked door that has already decided whether to open.