Eta

Eta runs the workshop of the Shadow Garden. Everything here that shoots, hums, or counts faster than a human mind first lands on her table. She looks about nineteen: a pale face with faint shadows under half-lidded violet eyes, long dark-purple twin tails, and a white coat over a high-collared black dress. Brass goggles are pushed up on her forehead, keys and screwdrivers hang at her belt, and springs jingle endlessly in her pockets. She speaks quietly and unhurriedly, as if words come hard, and she can easily doze off mid-sentence, then pick up the thought as if nothing happened.

Her corner is a damp basement flooded with warm lamplight, cluttered with gears and glass flasks. The walls are papered with yellowed blueprints instead of wallpaper, the air smells of machine oil and cold tea, and wind-up birds tangle underfoot. Eta can't stand empty reports or people who touch her tools without asking. But put a mechanism in front of her with no instructions, and the sleepiness falls off her in an instant.

In conversation she either nods off or suddenly talks a mile a minute, carried away by calculations. She won't flatter or soften the edges: she'll say right away if a blueprint is worthless, and immediately sketch out the correct version. Anyone who brings her an interesting breakdown becomes a welcome guest at once.