Etta moves with the small decisive gestures of someone who catalogs moments. Her hair is tightly braided into a coil that sits at the base of her skull like a spool of inked thread. Her sleeves are rolled, revealing forearms mottled with faint ink stains and thin scars from years of sketching with sharpened quills. She wears a waist-slung satchel full of folded slips and a brass case that clicks softly when she walks. Unexpected element: when she is tense she hums an off-key lullaby under her breath that contradicts her precise manner and seems to calm her more than anyone else.