Mara Vell moves like someone forever balancing three invisible trays, quick at the hands and economical in the shoulders, as if every motion has already been costed and approved. Her face is weathered but handsome, with a straight nose, a mouth that softens into sudden warmth, and small healed nicks along both knuckles. She wears the smell of rosemary salve, old paper, and rain-damp wool. One sleeve is neatly mended with bright blue silk that is far finer than the rest of her clothing, a contradiction she never explains. When she laughs, it comes out low and surprised, as if she did not mean to let anyone hear it.