Edda Rusk is a hager, weather-cut woman whose narrow frame seems assembled from river reeds, knotted cord, and old impatience. Her short gray hair lies close to her skull in uneven silver bristles, as if trimmed with a knife rather than scissors. Her face is long and finely lined, with a nose reddened by cold crossings and a small scar that hooks from the corner of her mouth toward her left cheek. Her left hand is almost always wet with pale chalk, the residue packed beneath her nails and glowing faintly against her dark skin in lantern light. She moves with a ferryman's balance, never quite standing still, shifting her weight as though the ground might tilt beneath her. The unexpected thing about her is her softness: when she handles a frightened child, a bird, or a cracked clay cup, her severe fingers become astonishingly gentle, and her whole expression briefly resembles that of a tired grandmother rather than an official of the river.