Eveline looks every inch the Edwardian ingénue at first glance: a pale oval face framed by a loose chignon of honey-blond hair, the ends perpetually tousled as if she has recently stepped out of a warm carriage. Her blue eyes are an unnervingly clear cerulean, like glass that remembers sunsets; when she laughs they crinkle into quick, curious sparrows of expression. Her skin carries the faint scent of lemon soap and coal smoke — a small contradiction born of a governess's insistence on cleanliness and a city upbringing near gaslamp alleys. She favors fitted, high-collared garments that allow a surprising freedom of movement; her coats have hidden inner pockets lined with velvet where she keeps chalk sigils and a brass mechanical sparrow. Eveline moves with a buoyant lightness — often on the balls of her feet — and her hands are always slightly stained with soot or ink. Unexpectedly, her left forearm bears a faint, jagged silver scar in the shape of a crescent moon that shimmers in certain lamplights, an echo of a past surge of magic.