Chapter 1

Zoe

There's a snow globe in my room.

It sits on top of the dresser in the corner, snug between a collection of painted rocks and the pale yellow wall. No smaller than a golf ball, no bigger than an orange.

It's been there since before I can remember - probably since before I was born. Watching over me, silent and still, as I moved through the phases of life. Infancy, in a creamy crib. The dawn of school age, with cheap packs of crayons and butter cheese sandwiches. And now, of course, when I use it as a source of serenity and happiness whenever I need to.

Inside of it lives a family of several egrets. Two of the birds are tall, while the other one is rather short. All three are spindly and translucent white. They're frozen into a permanent, benevolent pose, their long necks roped over each others' like harmonic vines.

They've always fascinated me. As young as a duckling, I'd stand on the tips of my stubby toes, pudgy sausage fingers gripping onto the edge of the dresser as I marveled at the scene inside of the globe. I wondered what it was like to live in such a small, yet perfect, little world. What it felt like to look out on one that was much bigger. When I got concerned that it wasn't so great, my grandpa assured me that the egrets in the globe thought otherwise.

My grandpa has been my hero since I was born.

He took me in when I was dropped off on his friend's doorstep as an infant, and hasn't missed a beat since. He's shown up to each school awards ceremony with a disposable camera and a prideful grin, served tomato soup whenever I came down with a bug. Even takes me out on what he likes to call "dessert dates" at the end of each month, so we can talk about how the past thirty-odd days have been over a lava cake.

He likes to insist that he wasn't the one who put the globe in my room - that it just showed up one day. However, I've grown old enough to know that his telltale wink says otherwise, and that things don't just appear out of nowhere. I'm also old enough to know that plastic figurines inside of snow globes don't have feelings.

But I like to pretend that mine do.

***

I trace the outline of an egret's leg - a thin stem - on my paper. My snow globe, which I know is sitting on my dresser across the room, is floating through the back of my mind. I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

There's an egret walking by right now, footing its way along the cobblestone street. They're quite common in the town on the outskirts of Copenhagen, which is where I live.

It's a small village, without identity. One with the rarity of air that's still fresh and people that are still kind, and a fishing pier right on the coast. There's an abundance of cute little streets and odd little shops.

My grandpa owns one of these. It's called Baby's Flowers, named after his prized miniature chihuahua. The shop sells a variety of seeds and plants, specializes in unique blossoms, herbs, and - hence the name - flowers.

It's been in business for years, which is why I'm usually not allowed to help out with it - at least when Joan (my bitchy, pottery-junkie Aunt) is running things. Abraham usually lets me help out when he's in charge, no matter how many flowers I crush and boxes I drop.

I turn the page of my sketchbook, leaving the egret drawing for another day. Although I love to draw, I'm a perfectionist. When things don't go right, I find myself with sweaty palms and a blank mind.

A loud bang echoes from across the room, and I jump, veering around as a quiet curse escapes my mouth.

My Grandpa Abraham is standing in the empty door frame, a proud grin etched across his face. He's a mountain of a man - burly, tough, at least 6'5 or 6'6, with a bristly white mustache perched beneath his nose.

There's a decent-sized hole in the wall where the door handle just slammed into. I pretend not to see it.

"Like the cake?" Abraham breathes, motioning to a large lump of sugar and chocolate held on a flimsy platter in his hands. Some of the pastry has smeared onto his apron.

I don't believe I mentioned.

Today (August 24th) is the 16th anniversary of the day that my grandpa "adopted" me. The day that my parents, whoever they were, dropped me at the doorstep of a stranger like a UPS package. The day that we blissfully pretend is my birthday.

"It looks delicious." I smile. Abraham is a terrible cook, but he doesn't need to know this.

"Great." He says. "The gang should be here soon."

"Aww, I didn't know they were coming this year."

"They always come!" He seems slightly offended, as if he's appalled at the fact that I thought otherwise. "They would never miss your 16th adopt-iversary!"

"I'm sorry." I offer. "I should've known."

"That's okay, they're always glad to see you. I better get finishing the punch, then - I know it's your favorite!"

With a happy wiggle of his fingers, Abraham tramps out of my bedroom, almost dropping the cake on the way.

A heavy sigh escapes my lips, my heart reaching out to the man with an even bigger one.

Even though I see Abraham as my real dad, I've always wondered where I came from. Who my parents were, where I was born, why they decided to leave me. Every year, around the anniversary of my adoption, these thoughts are amplified. I feel guilty for still being curious about my parents sixteen years after they abandoned me, but I can't help it.

The only clue I have as to who they are is a small, military-style photo of a man that Abraham found tucked in the bottom of the blankets I'd been dropped off in. I've studied the photo many times, with careful eyes and a quizzical mind. The man in the picture has a strong jaw, opposite of my softer one, but his eyes are just like mine. Watery blue, tinted here and there with shades of green - kind of like the ocean.

I've decided that he must be my father. There's no other way to it.

The thought of my parents leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Like pushing an old sock beneath the bed, I force the memory down, and head towards the stairs to join my grandpa.

***

"Come in, come in! Reggie, glad to see you, brother - you're the man, Deacon -"

The buff men come piling in over the threshold, each one having to bow their heads in order to fit. My grandpa stands nearby, holding open the door.

This is what he means when he talks about his 'gang' - a group of big, burly men who all joyride their motorcycles around Copenhagen every Wednesday and Friday. When they aren't busy doing that, they spend a lot of time helping out at the soup kitchen. It's through this group that I truly have nine unbiological fathers.

Each man gives me a rough pat on the head as they pass by. By the time all of them have piled inside, my hair looks like it's gone through a blender.

"Okay, everybody!" Abraham announces, clapping his hands together. "We've all gathered here for a very special reason tonight - to celebrate Zoe's 16th birthday!"

Some of the men cheer and dance around, others dab at the corners of their eyes with freshly-drawn handkerchiefs. Each wears a purple cardboard party hat - a contrast to the vast array of handle-bar mustaches and leather jackets.

Abraham clears his throat again, his voice cracking a little. "So let's all celebrate with food and song!"

After a very baritone rendition of happy birthday, the men disperse out into the connected living room, plopping down on the floor to watch drag racing and soap opera re-runs. I converse with all of them for a few minutes, catch them up on the past few weeks of my life - a short and thoroughly-enjoyed event that occurs each time they visit. But as time passes and bottles empty, I decide to sneak back into my room.

It's not long before I hear the familiar creak of my door drifting open behind me.

"Hu-llo!" A dwarfy, pale boy roars, plowing past the threshold. "You look precious, Zoelle, as always. God, I'm fucking jealous."

This is Eric Cahill - one of the two best friends that I have in Copenhagen. He is the only person who calls me by my real name.

"Oh, the other bitch came, too, by the way."

As if on cue, Stevie Renshaw (my other closest friend) strides through the door with the grace of a swan.

"Sorry if we're bothering you so late, Zoe - Abraham let us in."

Eric rolls his eyes. "That's ridiculous, Steve. Obviously, our presence is a blessing - or at least mine is."

"Wow, flattering."

The shorter boy lets out a posh cackle. "Oh, you know I kid, you know I kid." He cozies himself into the rolling chair that's settled in front of my desk.

"So, how was the day?" Stevie asks.

"Abraham went all out, as usual. The gang came and visited, too - you guys should've come to the party-"

Eric wrinkles his nose. "Um, I love your grandpa Zoe, but no. Not after that marble cake he made a few years back." He shivers cartoonishly. "I still have nightmares."

"So, are you ready for the big day?? Only..." he counts on his fingers, "six days to go!"

The Big Day is something that's been talked about for years. Whether it be between Eric and Stevie and I, or myself and my Grandpa, it's a huge deal to us all.

Especially me.

See, there's something about me that most wouldn't guess - I'm a witch.

At age four, my grandpa would catch me levitating rocks and books in my bedroom. At age six, I could flip a pancake from ten feet away with a flick of my finger. By age eight, I could turn a stone into a pine needle or a flower.

Then I turned eleven, and received my letter. I remember the day so clearly, even now.

My Grandpa was potting orchids in the shop, and I was perched atop my bed. My window was open, and it was as simple as that - something large and brown swooped by, and a parchment envelope the size of a dinner plate came floating down through. I read the sender's address three times to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and bolted down to the shop in five seconds, knocking over one of Aunt Joan's terra cota vases on the way.

My grandpa was so proud that he sobbed with joy. Only, there was still one problem we had yet to face: he was a struggling muggle who's only income came from a florist's shop named after his dog. Affording Hogwarts tuition seemed to be impossible (and it was).

He spoke with the headmaster, Dumbledore, and all was settled - I wouldn't be able to attend Hogwarts until my Grandpa had worked up enough money to pay for all the expenses.

So each year, I had to watch as my two life-long best friends left to go to magic school, while I got shoved off to a school called Dunlap Public to learn about things like physics and algebra.

My friends brought me home little trinkets and treats each June, and told me all about the adventures they'd had over the past year at Hogwarts, but I'd never felt like I was actually part of it all. Hearing about it just made me feel distanced and sad. But like a good friend, I sat through it and listened with a grin on my face.

Finally, after my 10th and most torturous year of grade school, my grandpa has saved up enough money for me to attend Hogwarts. I'll be going into my 6th year - Stevie and Eric told me so - and I'll only have two years there. Even though I'm a low B-average student with my best effort, I want to learn as much as I can.

"I'm psyched. It feels like it's been ages since I got my letter." I say, finally answering Eric's question.

"It has." He replies. "Trust me, you'll love it - I'll have to make sure you know who the bitches and snitches of the joint are so you don't get mixed up with the wrong people. Other than that, it's a blast."

"I hope so."

Stevie smiles. "Zoe, it's seriously a great place, and you're awesome. You'll fit in just fine there."

Instantly, I feel my nerves subdue. Besides Abraham, Stevie is the only person that can calm me down. Eric is a live-in-the-moment kind of guy, while my Aunt Joan, on the other hand, relishes in seeing me suffer.

The three of us spend the following hours together, conversation and happiness flowing as easily as water in a riverbed. They give me a small trinket for my birthday - a silver sickle, which is currency in the wizarding world. When the two finally leave, it's well past midnight.

Again, I'm alone. And just like it has every year before on this day, a familiar image swims through my mind. The curiosity that's brought about by the picture of my father is something I just can't fight.

I stick my hand in the thin crack between my bed and the wall, squeezing my arm down as far as it will fit, and scrape around in search of the 3x5 image. After knocking a few stray items out of the way, it's sitting right at my fingertips.

When I draw the slip back up from beneath the bed, I find myself staring into the eyes of my father.

I run my fingertips over his face, trying yet again to tell whether or not I got any of my features from him. Still, just the eyes - watery blue, tinted here and there with shades of green like the ocean.

Sometimes, I imagine what meeting my real parents would be like. I wonder if they'd hug me, and grin happily, tell me they were proud of who I've become. Or would it just be sort of awkward, and none of us would quite know what to do? I wonder if they'd love me.

No, Zoe, that's stupid. They don't love you - they dropped you on a doorstep before you even knew your own name. For all you know, they're not even alive anymore.

In the moment, I'm mad at myself for ruining my perfect little world of fantasy and parent-child reunion. Although the sun is already rising outside of my window, and the fishing docks have already become busy with milling men in yellow jackets, I sandwich myself between my blankets and mattress and turn off my lamp.

And though I didn't know it at the time, my parents were, in fact, alive and well - and much closer to me than I ever would've expected.

***