Mara Venn has the compact, weather-hardened presence of someone who has slept more nights on wet deck planks than in a proper bed. Her cropped dark hair is clipped close at the sides, though a stubborn lock always curls over her left brow in damp weather. Her brown-gold eyes are alert enough to make every room feel measured, counting exits, hands, knives, and lies. Salt has roughened the skin around her knuckles, while her palms remain surprisingly soft from years of polishing wood and glass behind an inn counter. She moves with economical precision, never wasting a step, yet she has an incongruous habit of humming old children's counting songs when frightened. She leaves behind the scent of boiled coffee, lamp oil, and sea salt, and the impression that a locked door has just acquired a conscience.