A young woman with a stillness that makes the clutter around her seem to move more loudly. She has a narrow, thoughtful face, a soft mouth usually pressed into concentration, and long fingers permanently darkened at the cuticles by ink. Her breathing is shallow and measured when calm, almost like someone counting silently, but when startled she inhales through her teeth with a faint whistle. She smells of cold dust, rosemary oil, lampblack, and rain-damp wool, a combination she insists is merely the natural odor of scholarship. Her movements are economical until she is excited, when she begins sorting objects into precise little constellations without noticing. The contradictory impression is that she looks fragile and sleep-starved, yet handles heavy folios and stubborn doors with surprising force.