Tall and lithe, with long fingers permanently stained in gray-black ink and hearth ash, he moves like a man trying not to wake a sleeping house. His face is sharp and thoughtful, made softer by a nose that healed crooked after an old brawl, and his left ear is ringed with tiny brass charms that click faintly when he turns his head. He wears immaculate velvet gloves despite the soot that clings to his cuffs, and the contradiction between his polished scholar's coat and the burn scars webbing his throat makes strangers look twice. When he smiles, it is warm enough to invite trust, but his eyes seem to measure every exit in the room.