Short and sinewy, Mara moves with the nervous economy of someone used to crowded rooms. Her skin carries the faint gray smudge of hearth soot even after washing. Tiny runes are tattooed along the inside of her forearms, their ink a brittle silver that flashes when she speaks certain old words. Her teeth are uneven and filed at odd angles, a single gold cap on a front tooth. She wears her hair in a practical knot studded with a few pins and trinkets: a small bone spoon, a piece of glass, a curled coin edge. Unexpectedly, beneath the grime she keeps a tiny, immaculate lace handkerchief folded in her sleeve, embroidered with a human name in cramped stitches.