Lee was a dancer once. Now, she was a collector of lost things.

Lee knew better. Sexanastasia had woken up.

It began three years ago in the rains of the Lower Penthouses. Lee had been performing The Dying Swan on a stage suspended over a chemical canal. Mid-plié, her left knee locked. Then it turned . It pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees backward, and the foot—still in its satin pointe shoe—began to tap a rhythm that was not in the score. A rhythm like a telegraph key. Like a heart begging to be let out.

By an Anonymous Chronicler of the Broken Spire

They called her Leg Sexanastasia Lee, though no one could remember who gave her the first name or why the middle one sounded like a curse muttered in a forgotten language. She was simply Lee to the street sweepers and the night-market chiromancers—a woman of impossible stature and unsettling grace.