Elowen moves like someone raised on soft earth and heavy loads: light on her feet when crossing a furrow, steady and implacable when hefting a bale. Her hair is a tumble of wheat-gold, usually braided down her back in a loop that smells faintly of hay and lavender. Her fingers are callused, the nails perpetually rimmed with soil; she keeps one knuckle nicked by a sickle scar that puckers silver. Her face is striking — wide-set, clear blue eyes, a dusting of freckles across her nose, full lips that ease easily into a smile — but there's an odd, contradictory detail: she wears a delicate, faded lace handkerchief tied at her throat like a ribbon from some town performance, as if she cannot wholly choose between the farm and a different, softer life. She walks with a small limp in her left foot from a childhood fall, but carries herself with an honest, unforced confidence that draws attention.