Vesper Keane was born to a wall to do Muggle family, settled comfortably within the middle class. The Keanes were known for their tenacity and ability to accept things as they were. Very little fazed them.

Until Vesper came along.

She was the fourth addition to the family, late into her parent's years. All three of her older siblings were either preparing for or already in university, so she rarely saw them. When she did, however, she was firmly attached to Nolan, the second child.

Nolan encouraged her to read, sending her books upon books for her birthday. Vesper's favorite was a large volume of the Brother's Grimm tales. She loved the dark stories, chock full of magic and evil and good. Many a time she would wander along the shoreline past the village, pretending to be a princess, or a knight, or a witch. In fact, her first encounter with her magic was during one of her escapades.

It was the middle of the summer, a few weeks after she had turned ten. Vesper was eager to get to the shore before her parents could discover her missing and run to collect her so she could finish her chores. Being an unruly girl who didn't consider consequences, she hopped the fence of a neighbor's, finding herself standing in a pasture. Her eyes latched onto a strange collection of animals: a donkey, dog, cat, and rooster.

Almost immediately, she was reminded of the The Town Musicians of Bremen, one of the more lighthearted stories included within her book. Jokingly, she called out "Sing! Sing for me!"

It wasn't singing per say, but the chorus that rose was enough of a song for her. After all, it sounded suspiciously like Danny Boy, but in barks, brays, crows, and mewls. The sound was so awful that the animals' owner had barged out of his house with his hands clamped over his ears, yelling words Vesper had never heard before.

Needless to say, she was quickly shooed off the premises.

Months later, she had chalked it up to imagination. Animals couldn't sing. She'd probably just startled the poor creatures. Magic wasn't real.

But a letter tied to an owl's talon proved otherwise.