Hana had loved feet for as long as she could remember. Not in the way a podiatrist loves feet, with clinical detachment and a chart of bones. Not in the way a dancer loves feet, with respect for their strength and their pain. Hana loved feet the way other people loved mouths or breasts or the curve of a hip. She loved them with her whole body, with a devotion that felt almost religious.

It had started when she was a girl. Her aunt had been a famous actress in their country, a woman with elegant hands and long, delicate feet that she decorated with henna and gold anklets. Hana used to sit on the floor while her aunt got ready for performances, watching her paint her toenails a deep red, watching her slide her feet into jeweled sandals. Once, her aunt had placed a bare foot on Hana's lap and asked her to rub it. Hana had been eight years old. She had held that foot like it was made of glass and worked the arches with her small fingers until her aunt sighed and said, "You have a gift, little one."