Elarra moves like a poem in three parts. She walks with a light, deliberate tread as if counting beats; her left sleeve is always slightly singed at the cuff where she once held a candle too close to a brass charm. Her voice holds a turn of laugh at the end of every sentence that both softens and sharpens what she says. She wears layered scarves that rustle; one scarf is embroidered with the constellation of the harbor where she grew up. Unexpectedly her right hand has the steady, callused clarity of a carpenter and her nails are often stained with bright ink from writing letters late into the night.