Maris moves like a metronome, precise and small motions measured to the heartbeat. She keeps a spotless, narrow face framed by a tight bun that reveals one long silver streak at the right temple. Her left index finger bears a faint ink burn where a ledger once caught flame. Her sleeves are always rolled to mid-forearm revealing tiny, callused prints where she counts beads of brass on a rod. Her expression tends toward courteous neutrality but when amused a single crowfoot wrinkle appears at the left eye. Unexpected element: beneath her otherwise immaculate business jacket she wears a faded child's scarf woven with the crest of a dockside orphanage she quietly funds.