Evelyn moves like someone half-ashamed of her own grace. Her blonde hair is braided into a loose, slightly messy plait that swings like a metronome when she walks. Her Wrenwood jacket fits like a second skin, the silver crescent piping catching lamplight; the inner lining ripples with moonlit ink whenever she breathes or shifts her weight. Her blouse is ivory with tiny pintucks at the throat and a thin plum ribbon tied like a conservative bow. She favors tailored trousers rather than a skirt, cut to allow sudden motion; the enchanted hem never brushes the cobbles. Unexpected detail: one cuff of her sleeve is singed and faintly charred as if by a domestic mishap, yet she always perfumes that sleeve with lemon oil to mask smoke. The overall impression is carefully scholarly with a secret tendency toward mischief.