Rowan moves as if his body and his money were equally concerned with appearances. He keeps his posture immaculate, chest slightly forward, hands often tucked into the pockets of his long coat as if each hand holds a contract and a dagger at once. His skin shows the faint map of a life spent indoors and in opulent salons: tiny, pale scars like pinpricks along the back of his left hand and a sun-faded patch behind his right ear. He favors narrow spectacles whose frames are carved from a blue-green gem called sea-azur, lenses slightly tinted to give his gaze a perpetual look of distant amusement. He smiles the way someone practices arithmetic: neat, rehearsed, persuasive. Unexpectedly, when he grows angry his voice thickens and his left eye twitches twice in time with a finger-tap on a brass table bell he always keeps at hand—an almost childish tic that contradicts his cultivated, polished façade.