Jessa is a woman of soft edges and hidden iron. Her face is round and perpetually flushed from the heat of the ovens, framed by a wild halo of dark curls that she fruitlessly tries to pin back with wooden spoons. She moves with a surprising, heavy grace, like a ship cutting through a busy harbor. Though she appears soft, her forearms are corded with the muscle of decades spent kneading dough and lifting cast iron. One unexpected element is her scent; she does not just smell of flour and yeast, but also of sharp, expensive cedar wood and old parchment, hints of a scholarly past she rarely mentions.