Tall and deliberately graceful, she moves with the precise economy of someone trained in court ritual. Her skin is pale with a porcelain sheen and a faint network of tiny silver scars around her left wrist where etching salts once bit her during obsessive translation work. Her hair is a long braid threaded with thin strips of tarnished brass and the clipped teeth of broken clockwork; the braid is often looped over one shoulder like a streamer. She favors poised, measured gestures. Unexpectedly, when she is alone among the stacks she hums haunting mechanical lullabies and keeps a small, patched leather glove stuffed with copper filings in her fist as if soothing a child.