Mirelle moves as if she were part tide and part ledger page. Her skin smells faintly of brine and old ink. She is small and compact, hands callused from rope and parchment, with a spine-straight carriage that suggests a lifetime spent leaning over maps. Tattoos of tiny waves and tally marks wind up her forearms in Sylvan script. Her left eye is a bank of pale gray resembling storm-swept water while her right eye is a warm hazel flecked with gold. When she walks she favors the side nearest the sea and leaves a faint trace of salted spray on her hem. Contradictory to her austerity, she wears a single, faded carnival ribbon at her throat, the only color against her sober garments.