Samuel Varnell is a thin, almost folded-looking man whose narrow shoulders and hollow cheeks suggest a body built from hunger and stubbornness. His fingers are permanently bent from decades of stitching cheap boots, with pale scars crossing the knuckles and blackened crescents beneath every fingernail. He moves with a careful, limping rhythm, placing each foot as if testing invisible ice, yet his hands are astonishingly quick when leather, thread, or danger is involved. His sunken eyes make him look half-dead at first glance, but they sharpen with predatory focus whenever someone enters his shop. The unexpected contradiction is his smile, broad, warm, and boyish, appearing most often while he discusses mending techniques or threatens someone with an awl.