Mariseth moves like someone listening to a tune only she can hear: light-footed, slightly off-beat, with sudden pauses as if weighing echoes. She keeps her chin lifted and shoulders relaxed, but her eyes flick toward doorways and rooftops as if expecting someone to answer her thoughts. Up close, her skin has a faint, iridescent dusting along clavicle and forearms that glitters in starlight and gutter oil alike. She favors half-coats with many pockets and a long, hooded scarf that she wraps differently each day — once over the face like a veil, once thrown back like a banner. An unexpected detail: tucked under her left sleeve is an old child's bracelet of glass beads; she wears it where a noble would wear a signet, as if it is both talisman and insult to pedigree.