Dark hair, salt-coarsened and pinned back hard at dawn, loosening by lamplight, with a few early grey threads at the temple she has stopped pulling. Blue-grey eyes, fair freckled skin weathered by the harbor, and a tall, athletic frame held upright behind the chandlery counter. Her hands are working hands — weathered, that have hauled cordage rather than been kept idle, a thin pale rope-burn scar across the heel of the right one. She wears plain, practical chandlery clothes under a lamp-oil-stained apron she keeps wiping her palms against, knotted the same way every morning.