Raphael Sorell stands with the effortless poise of a born courtier and the tight readiness of a veteran swordsman. His short curly hair is the pale gold of late summer wheat, cropped close at the sides but left a little longer on top so it springs in soft ringlets. His face is handsome in a manner that reads like a portrait you remember from a gallery of flawed saints: chiselled jaw, a faint surgical scar running from temple toward cheekbone that glints silver when he smiles, and a thin pale crescent-shaped scar over his left eyebrow. His cruel green eyes are sharp and bright, giving the impression of someone always calculating angles and exits. He moves with dancer-like economy; his steps are measured, weight always slightly back as if preparing to lunge. Unexpectedly, he often carries a small woven basket of clipped rosebuds balanced on his forearm when in private areas of his estate, and he tends them with the furtive tenderness of a gardener, a softness that contradicts the severity in his face.