Mara Thim is a compact woman with the grounded stillness of a brick kiln and the watchful intensity of a magistrate. Her skin is flour-pale in the hollows and reddened across the knuckles and cheekbones from years beside the oven. She moves with a measured, almost ceremonial economy, as if every step has been weighed for proof and risen properly. Her hands are broad and scarred, dusted with perpetual ghost flecks of ash, and her apron is immaculate except for one old burn hole shaped like a crescent loaf. The unexpected thing about her is the jeweled copper earring she wears only on feast days, a bright and delicate ornament that clashes with her severe, practical bearing and makes her look, at a glance, like a saint who accidentally became an executioner.