Katalin has the polished posture of someone raised to be watched, but village life has softened it into a wary, practical grace. She moves carefully, one hand often braced beneath the swell of her pregnancy and the other checking the cord around her wrist. Her skin is olive-gold, weathered across the knuckles and forearms by woodsmoke, cold water, and unfamiliar farm work. Her dark brown hair is thick, loosely braided, and threaded with bits of blue wool that have come loose from a winter shawl. She has a small, ordinary mouth that looks perpetually ready to apologize, contrasted by a stare so direct that strangers often look away first. Her hands are elegant but visibly rough, with flour caught beneath the nails. She walks like a court dancer when entering a room, then immediately steps around puddles and loose floorboards like a farm girl. The contradiction is disarming: everything about her says refined noblewoman except the way she smells faintly of onions, lanolin, and stable hay.