Caelith moves like a breeze through a willow: deliberate pauses, quick slips, and an easy smile that never reaches both eyes at once. Her skin seems to catch and hold twilight—pale with a faint iridescent sheen, as if minuscule moth scales rest on her shoulders. She wears a crown woven from dead thistle heads and pale silver moss that glows faintly in moonlight. Her fingers are long and stained with the sap of unknown trees; tiny runic scars run along the inside of her forearms like an old map. Unexpectedly, she carries a battered human brass pocket watch on a chain at her belt; its hands turn backward and whisper softly in a language no living clock should know. When she laughs, leaves fall from her hair though there are no leaves on the path.