Mara Thistleford is a compact, broad-shouldered human woman with the steady balance of someone who has spent decades carrying sacks across uneven floors. Her hands are the first thing most people notice: square, deeply lined, and permanently dusted at the creases with traces of grain, lampblack, and cinnamon no washing quite removes. She keeps her iron-gray hair braided into a severe crown, but tiny golden oat husks are almost always caught in it. She moves with surprising quiet, gliding between shelves as if she knows exactly where every loose board will creak. Her clothes are practical and carefully mended, yet she wears one absurdly fine crimson silk glove on her left hand, reserved for handling letters, jewelry, and anything she considers emotionally important. She leaves people with the impression of a locked cupboard that has somehow learned to smile.