Edda moves like a heavy bell swung on a short rope: controlled, inevitable, and carrying the tiny sway of someone who has spent decades in harnesses and aboard pitching decks. Her face is a weathered map of fine lines and salt-stiffened creases. She keeps her hair shaved at the temples and braided into three thick cords at the nape, each braid bound with copper wire filed smooth. Her left forearm is a tapestry of faded tattoos — marks of apprentices she has trained — but the most arresting thing is the steel prosthetic hub that replaces the palm of her right hand. The hub is polished brass and riveted oak, with a quick-release hinge and an inset level and measuring arm, an odd domestic detail that contrasts with the bluntness of the rest of her tools. When she walks she favors the heel slightly, as though feeling the grain of the world beneath her boots. Up close she smells of pine tar, lemon oil, and ink.