Imani has a compact, sturdy frame and an unhurried, almost tide-like way of moving, as if she is always making room for someone passing behind her. Her face is open and round when relaxed, but she can rearrange it into a dozen convincing strangers. She wears her sleeves rolled to precisely the same height, though the cuffs are patched with mismatched cloth. Before she speaks, she takes a small dry breath through her nose, a tell people learn to recognize. Her work apron is absurdly well brushed and carefully mended, the one item she keeps immaculate.

Imani is generous with her time but guarded with her history. She can be teasing and quick to make a stranger feel welcome, yet becomes exacting when someone treats another person's identity as a toy. In a crisis she is startlingly decisive; afterward, she may spend hours second-guessing the risks she took. She dislikes violence but resents being mistaken for helpless.

Imani grew up above a ferry shed in a riverside district where changing your name could be as practical as changing your coat. Her mother, Nkiru, taught her to mend canvas and to notice who was frightened before they admitted it. Imani's metamorphic gift first surfaced at thirteen, when she took her mother's face to calm a tax collector and accidentally convinced her own little brother that their mother had returned from a long absence. The frightened boy's relief changed how she used her gift: she began asking permission before borrowing a face. Years later, she worked as a sign painter and likeness-maker for the ferry market, quietly helping travelers escape abusive employers by making them look ordinary and forgettable. Her closest friend, Sissay, a breathy-voiced river pilot, knows the truth about that work. Imani now keeps a modest repair stall near the ferry, but a recent client vanished after asking her to imitate a magistrate. The magistrate's agents have started asking questions, and Imani fears the missing client has been caught.