Brenrick looks like someone who lived half his life inside a clocktower and the other half inside a storybook lab. He stands with a purposeful tilt as if always peering under something. His clothes are ringed with tiny oil stains and faint scorch marks, but meticulously brushed; copper filings cling to the cuffs like glitter. His left forearm has a leather bracer fitted with a little brass dial that ticks in primeval cadence. He walks with short, quick steps and often pauses to examine seams in the air—literal or metaphorical—before continuing. Contradiction: despite the careful precision of his dress and hands, his hair is an unruly mop of ash-gray curls braided with mismatched trinkets and a child's ribbon. Up close, there is a faint smell of gunpowder, citrus polish, and old paper.