Sixteen years after she was born, her mother shipped her off to Miss. Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies.
Her mother thrives off her pride and determination; a witch for a daughter doesn't allow that.
Zoe watches herself blossom while her mother descends into insanity. Their relationship is strained. The envy reads plainly on her face, Zoe's "genetic affliction" is silently coveted by Nora.
She isn't ashamed, not the least bit, loves the feeling of power pulsating through her veins.
"How many times do I have to tell you, this is a curse not a blessing."
She can sense the exasperated roll of her mother's eyes, but Zoe is all collected poise. Not a flicker of emotion crosses her face.
Before she can sarcastically reply she is ushered out, uttering nothing more than a curt "Goodbye," content with never seeing her mother again.
The academy gates screech open in welcome. The grounds are scattered with replicas of thin, porcelain-skinned girls.
Zoe's first thought is "Freedom."
The air was humid, the butler was eerie.
With matted hair and rotten teeth, Spalding is something sinister.
Butterscotch hair bobs down the staircase. Fiona Goode, Supreme.
Introductions are short. Zoe isn't one for talking and Fiona isn't one for fraternizing with potential successors.
For all of Fiona's exceptional magic, she can't seem to keep herself young. She sounds tired, her skin revealing the effects of time on elasticity.
Almost forgotten entirely is her group of three not ten feet behind, arrogantly holding their chins high, surveying Zoe with their eyes.
"Staring doesn't intimidate me," her voice does not waver and her tone is strong.
Zoe doesn't want them to like her; it prevents the unnecessary time-consuming fakeness of friendship.
She's too cynical, she knows. But it's better than being too naive.
"Our magic will," the Fiona replica snarls.
Zoe pretends not to hear, stealthily surveying the foyer with silent footsteps. The short, pilgrim-looking one speaks next.
"I'm Nan," her voice is enthusiastic. It makes Zoe's skin crawl, but she offers a smile rather than a snide comment.
The last one, the only one with pigment in her skin and meat on her bones offers little more than an "humph," which Zoe appreciates.
Her cheeks turn her eyes into slits as she gives Queenie a genuine smile, something she hasn't done in years.
Fiona clears her throat, annoyed by the exchange and the fact that she has been kept away from her cocaine and scotch too long.
"There," with a wave of her hand the doors to Zoe's bedroom open.
Everyone transmutes out of the room, only Spalding remains, reaching for her luggage at an agonizingly slow pace.
"I'll get it," the boy with the blonde curls interjects and Spalding recoils his hand.
"Cute," is Zoe's first thought, but he is too eager, his movements too swift, and he's too charming. Zoe doesn't like charm.
Zoe paints on her best annoyed face when his hand brushes against hers, a poor attempt at hiding the way the contact made her heart flutter. It's a half-ass attempt and the golden-haired boy knows.
"Kyle," he extends his hand. Zoe raises an eyebrow, contemplates telling him her name is Griselda, but decides against it.
"Your palm is sweaty." It's more of an observation than a statement, and she notices the flush that grows on his cheeks.
In one swift movement she grabs her luggage and transmutes to her room. Her palm is sweaty too.