At seventeen, she worked the tannery vats, stirring hides in a reek of lime and rot. The other girls—the ones with symmetrical faces and honeyed voices—would pass by and cover their noses. At least the smell matches the face, they laughed.

Her skin was the color of deep cave water—translucent, shifting. She had seven fingers on each hand. Her face was a mosaic of features that did not belong together: one eye vast and sorrowful, one eye small and bright; a mouth that smiled sideways; a cheekbone that jutted like a broken branch. She was, without question, the ugliest being anyone had ever seen.