Johas moves like a man who learned to judge time by the strike of hammer on anvil. He is broad-shouldered with callused hands that look almost delicate when he cradles his daughter's head. His skin bears a faint constellation of pale burn-scars, and his forearms are tattooed with a sinuous line of soot and ink—a map of places he wants to visit with his child. He favors a soot-dark apron always slung low at his hips, even when he steps into town; the apron is patched in a dozen places with scraps of brightly colored festival cloth, each patch a keepsake sewn on by his daughter. When he walks, his gait is steady and unhurried, but his eyes dart like a man used to watching sparks. Unexpectedly, he keeps one small silver bell tied to his belt that jingles softly when he approaches; he claims it was for luck, but it sounds like the song he hums while he works.