Edrin is tidy to an almost ceremonial degree. He keeps his small frame precisely straight while seated, as if the vertebrae themselves were filing cabinets. His spectacles sit low on his nose, round lenses slightly cloudy with age and a faint iridescent sheen where ink has etched tiny, concentric lines. His fingers are stained with dark blue and sepia ink in irregular rings and smudges. He moves with delicate, economical gestures; when he reaches for a book, his hand opens with the care of a locksmith. Unexpectedly, his right sleeve is always patched with a scrap of bright purple fabric embroidered with a child's crude stitchwork, a cheerful contradiction to the rest of his orderliness.