A kindly, bent woman whose silver hair is swept into a neat bun, with two loose tendrils that fall in soft waves down either side of her face. Her skin is a roadmap of tiny creases and flour-flecked lines; when she smiles the eyes at their corners crinkle like well-used linen. She moves with the deliberate economy of someone who has spent decades over fires and chopping blocks—swift when necessary, but mostly slow and deliberate. She wears a stained but immaculate linen apron over layered wool and homespun garments, and there is always a whisk clenched in one hand as if it were a walking stick. The unexpected element: despite her frail, wrinkled face and slow steps, Maera's hands are callused and capable with startling force and precision, able to lift a pot from the hearth as if it weighed nothing. In the dim stone kitchen she favors—warm light bathing her face and a window through which darkness presses—she gives the impression of someone who both comforts and commands a small kingdom.