Mirelle moves like someone who has been taught to be the center of attention without ever demanding it: graceful, deliberate steps, a carriage that suggests both training and boredom. She wears her black hair long and straight, usually tucked behind one ear to reveal a porcelain cheek dimple and a thin white scar that bisects the top of her right eyebrow — the souvenir of a street knife when she was nineteen. Her skin bears the faint map of a childhood sunburn along the left shoulder, oddly juxtaposed with the immaculate white gloves she insists upon in court. When still, her expression is composed to the point of statuesque calm; when amused, a single, almost malicious smile touches one corner of her mouth, and she allows a laugh that is entirely out of character with her usual reserve. The unexpected element: she wears a child's wooden whistle on a leather thong beneath her gown, hidden but always present, and fingers it when deeply thinking.