Runs like a curled vine through a market: quick, deliberate, and always aware of who watches the stalls. Wears a permanent leaf-patterned cloak that seems to drink light; the cloak’s hem is stitched with tiny brass bells that chime in a complex rhythm when she moves, more to set an invisible cadence than to announce her. Her fingers are ink-stained at the joints, always smelling faintly of resin and citrus oil from trade ledgers and sealing wax. She carries a bandolier of flattened wooden pouches (ledger seeds) and a ring of keys that clacks like a small, secretive heartbeat. Unexpectedly, she walks with a slight limp on her left side but moves with surprising speed when animated — the limp is a flourish as much as a injury, a learned cadence that makes others instinctively slow down and listen to her. Up close, one sees a web of minute, deliberate scars in her palms where quills and knives have grazed her over a century of ledgers and bargains.