Felix Mortgrave is a thin, angular man whose body seems assembled from elbows, collarbones, and nervous angles. His skin has the pale, dry look of candle wax left near a cold window, while his fingertips are permanently stained green beneath the nails from years of handling embalming salts and alchemical preservatives. He moves with a careful, gliding precision, never quite brushing against furniture or people, as if every room contains an invisible corpse. His spectacles are repaired at the bridge and one temple with bright red thread, an oddly festive detail against his funereal appearance. His apron is green-stained, stiff with old chemical spills, and patched with scraps of burial cloth. The unexpected contradiction is his smile, which is warm, sincere, and almost boyish when he discusses flowers, music, or a well-made pastry.