Petite even for a gnome, Lysara moves with a quick, precise economy: the tilt of her head like a page turning, the way her hands hover over books as if expecting them to breathe. Her face is freckled in ink-brown dots where she has absentmindedly smudged marginalia for years. She wears a waist-length jacket of patched velvet with innumerable inside pockets; when she walks, tiny bells sewn into the hem tinkle in a deliberate, bookish rhythm. Unexpectedly, she keeps a pair of heavy, soot-darkened traveling boots, scuffed and far too practical for a librarian, hinting at secret pilgrimages. She smells faintly of parchment, lemon oil, and pipe tobacco—an odd habit for a woman who claims not to touch smoking pipes.