The Lady of the Watchtower: Six Stories of Magic and Transformation

By Nancy O'Toole

A sorceress haunted by the magic of her past…

A pair of sister witches embrace their birthright in vastly different ways…

A beautiful princess is changed into a hideous beast…

Magic is a powerful force, able to transform everyone it touches. In this short collection, The Lady of the Watchtower, the lives of six different women and girls are altered forever thanks to their encounters with powerful spells, and deadly creatures. Explore this book for original tales, such as "The Fox," where the notoriously shifty avatar of the fox god takes on a job of revenge that that brings her face to face with the ultimate predator. Also included are fairy tales revisited, such as a modern-day twist on "Hansel and Gretel," and a "Beauty and the Beast" inspired story where the heroine is both beauty and beast.

Dive into The Lady of the Watchtower for your own meeting with magic. Just be careful about the spells you encounter along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy O'Toole
• Release date: Aug 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201960254

Book preview

Nancy O’Toole

The Lady of the Watchtower: Six Stories of Magic and Transformation

Copyright © 2020 by Nancy O’Toole

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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Contents

Foreword

1. The Witch in the Woods

2. Oriana and the Magic Lines

3. The Paper Doll

4. The Lady of the Watchtower

5. The Fox

6. Gretel

The Story Behind the Stories

Publication History

Books by Nancy O’Toole

Foreword

Magic was the first thing that drew me to the fantasy genre.

It changes all the rules. I love how introducing just one or two elements of power can shift our world or create entirely new ones. How it can be chaotic and unpredictable, strict and structured, or both. And most importantly, I love exploring how these changes impact the lives of others in dramatic ways.

Perhaps this is why stories of magic and stories of transformation often go hand in hand. At least, for me.

In the following collection, you’ll find six stories about women and girls whose lives are transformed through the influence of magic. Sometimes those alterations are physical. In The Lady of the Watchtower, a retelling of Beauty and the Beast, a young woman is transformed into a monstrous creature. In The Fox, animal-based gods select human avatars and change them both physically and mentally into perfect encapsulations of their power. In Oriana and the Magic Lines, a spell gone wrong transforms one person forever and leads everyone involved toward death.

Other times, these shifts are more about important moments in a young person’s life. This collection contains multiple coming-of-age stories. In The Paper Doll, a mage encounters her first advanced spell, with chaotic results. In the fairytale-inspired Gretel, a normal girl must defeat a powerful creature to save the life of her younger brother. And in The Witch in the Woods, the exploration of magic leads a pair of sister witches down very different paths.

Magic can also transform us as both writers and readers. By creating a safe distance, with worlds or creatures that are entirely imaginary, we can more safely explore emotions or topics that may hit too close to home. And by opening our minds to accept the impossible, we can sometimes connect to people in ways that our biases might otherwise restrict.

I hope you enjoy the following stories. And that the magic that you encounter, in these tales and beyond, leaves you somehow transformed.

1

The Witch in the Woods

My mother was the evil witch who hid in the woods. With her sweet voice, she lured children away from their homes and families. She took them into her house and locked them in cages. She would fatten them up with sugary foods before consuming their flesh. And while she did this, she felt no regret.

Then, she had two daughters. First came my sister, Arbella, and six years later, me. Her ways changed. Whenever I asked her why she would simply smile and say the forest didn’t need that kind of witch anymore.

She spoke of what the forest needed quite often.

My mother could control almost everything, even our ages. She kept me at five for the longest stretch of time, so that is where most of my early memories lay. We lived in a small cottage covered with moss. The trees of the forest grew so close that I could brush my fingers against the bark just by reaching out of my bedroom window.

One day, Arbella and I were sitting at the kitchen table, our feet tucked beneath the heavy wooden chairs. My sister leaned over her needlework, her soft, curly hair falling in front of her face like a shadow. Her wide gray eyes focused on the needle poking in and out of the fabric as if it was the only thing in the room. My mother stood by the window, the sun streaming over her tall form. Her eyes were shut, her face relaxed as if she were listening to the words of the woods.

She opened her eyes as the door to our little house swung open. The three of us looked over to see a tall, bearded man with broad shoulders walk into the room. In his hand, he held three roses.

My lady, he said, nodding toward my mother. He picked up her hand and raised it for a kiss.

My mother smiled with her lips, but not her eyes, which remained calm and soft.

So good for you to visit us again, she said. And what is this I see? Your greenhouse is finally producing roses?

Yes. And as a thank you, I thought I would bring roses, for my beautiful roses.

In my mother’s hands, he placed a small, dusty-purple bloom. Then he turned to us. The sight of the deep-red rose was enough to draw Arbella away from her needlework. She cradled the large blossom in her hands and began examining each and every one of the petals.

Be careful of the thorns now, Raeya, he said, placing a pure-white rose into my hands.

Thank you, I said to the gardener.

I immediately sunk my nose into its petals. The gentle fragrance intensified so much that I could almost taste it on the air. How could my mother and sister resist the indulgence?

The gardener grinned at my reaction to his present.

Do you like it, Raeya?

It is lovely, I replied, running my fingers over its soft petals. As I did, the contrast of the white rose brought out the grayness of my skin. I froze, looking up to my sister’s face, which had a slight tan to it, then to my mother’s, which was fairer. Beneath the beard, the gardener’s face was turning the pink of an early sunburn. I lifted a hand in front of my face and examined the tone. The tint was faint, only really noticeable around the lines and ridges that made up my knuckles, along with the skin trapped beneath my fingernails.

Is there something wrong, Raeya? he asked.

I…I look different than you, I said. Is there something wrong with me?

You are gray, Raeya, my mother said, not turning from the window. Your skin, your eyes, and your hair. Have you not noticed this before?

I shook my head. Of course I had noticed the color, but until today it had never seemed out of place. I felt a tightness build up in my chest as I stared at my hands and fingernails.

The gardener reached out and placed his weathered hand over mine.

You have lovely skin, he said. Lovely eyes, and hair. There is nothing wrong with you.

As he spoke, he reached out and pushed a strand of my straight, silvery-gray hair behind my ear.

It was then that I first realized the strange man who visited my mother so often could be our father.

Across the table, Arbella had plucked each individual petal off her rose and had laid them along the table in a perfectly straight line. Before I realized what she was doing, she took my rose from my hands and began plucking out its petals as well.

Arbella, no! I said, reaching across the table to snatch it away.

My older sister froze, her fingers already resting on another petal. Her gaze darted back and forth between the gardener and me. Her hands began to tremble.

It’s okay, the gardener said. It’s okay, Arbella. Raeya, I’ll get you a new rose.

I don’t want a new one, I said, pushing back from the table. As I did so, the table shook, breaking the perfect line of red rose petals.

Tears began to form in Arbella’s eyes.

I’ll fix it, she said, biting her lip. With that, she grabbed a fistful of blood-red flower petals from the table and ran from the house, taking my white rose with her. I felt my mouth hang open.

Why is she so stupid! I don’t understand. She’s so much older than me!

Raeya.

The sound of my mother’s soft voice made me pause.

Your sister…she may be older in years, but there are many things that she has difficulty understanding. I kept her at a young age for too long. It was my mistake. The ways of the forest are not always easy to comprehend.

She crossed the room and sat in front of me, the fabric of her pale-purple gown rustling.

You, Raeya, are bright, far more than you should be at this age. I’ve done some thinking and have determined that it’s right to educate you on my craft. You will have to be older to learn some of what I wish to impart, so we are going to let both you and Arbella grow for a little while. Do you understand?

For all my supposed brightness, I understood little. All I knew was that my mother was going to spend time with me and teach me something important. Something that Arbella would not get to learn.

That night I lay alone in the bed I shared with my sister. Arbella had stayed away from the house since stealing my present, and I couldn’t quell the anger inside of me. Without her warm back to mine, I shivered despite the presence of a soft quilt. When she finally came home, I hid my face beneath my hair and pretended to be asleep. Before climbing onto our straw-filled mattress, she paused next to me and placed something on the bedside table. It wasn’t until I heard her slow sleeping breaths that I dared to open my eyes. I reached out for the object on the table.

It was her rose. No…our roses. Where hers had been red, and mine white, this possessed both petals, displayed in an artful randomness that made it look natural. Squinting, I took a closer look. Tiny black stitches marked the bottom of each petal. In fixing the rose, my sister had created something unique, a patchwork of red and white. Only now, the rose was starting to turn yellow and brown, marring its perfection. I wondered if my