chapter 1

“This,” Lady Penelope puffed, struggling to free her newly rotund body from the attic door in which it had become trapped, “is stupid.”

The problem, she had established, was her belly. Up until that point, there had been no trouble – her legs were thicker than they had been when she had climbed up the ladder into the attic a mere hour before, certainly, but there had been no sign of trouble until after she’d managed to slowly navigate her big hips through the small space.

She’d felt the side of the door brush up against her backside, but pressed on – the transformation had been significant, but it couldn’t be that much. Not even magic did that.

By the time she got to her midsection, though, there was a problem. The embarrassing blob of blubber just barely fit through the door, squeezing uncomfortably against the frame, but it fit – until the potion, which she had thought had run through all the effects it could have, decided to have one last hurrah and grow her gut by a few more inches, trapping her firmly with the upper half of her body in her room and with her legs kicking futilely in the hallway below as she struggled to free herself.

“I’ll never make another potion,” she swore to herself, out of breath from her efforts as she struggled to use her arms to push herself back up into her bedroom. “Never, as long as I live. I’m done with magic.”

The whole ridiculous matter had started a few months ago when Lord Alasdair had arrived at the castle. A noble from the countryside, he was rumored to be something of an absent-minded philosopher – not particularly practical and certainly not the image of the brave knight which was worshipped in the court, but well-versed in history and the natural sciences.

The king had called him to the castle for the purpose of consulting him on the strange blight afflicting the kingdom’s wheat crop. The answer to the problem, it seemed, had come less from Lord Alasdair’s learning than his decision to simply ask a local farmer, who explained that the issue was not with the wheat itself but with changes to how magistrates were storing it.

The responsible magistrates were appropriately disciplined for their foolishness, the wheat crop was stored properly, and famine was averted. It wasn’t a particularly glorious victory, and Lord Alasdair was largely forgotten by court gossip.

He was not, however, forgotten by Lady Penelope. She was infatuated. Certainly he was no great knight, no handsome Adonis for the court ladies to swoon over, but there was some certain quality to him – his peaceful gaze, his seeming complete ignorance of the pettiness of castle politics – that appealed to her. And besides, he had saved the kingdom!

As time went on, she went out of her way to spend time with Alasdair – conversing with him over dinner, walking the grounds together, having long discussions philosophy and magic. As she became closer to him, she began to suspect that she was truly in love with him.

After a time, though, he suddenly became quite cold to her, and nothing Penelope did seemed to compel her knight to notice her again.

She batted her lashes at him, and he didn’t seem to notice. She commented drolly on the queen’s health, and he nodded politely and wished the royal family well. She dropped her handkerchief in his path, and he stepped over it. The man had no understanding of courtship!

What few knew about the Lady Penelope was that she was herself something of a scholar – specifically, a student of the magical arts. Of course she by no means had anything near the level of talent and learning as the king’s sorcerers, but an old woman in her home village had taught her one or two things and she could perform little tricks like knocking over another lady’s glass from across the table, or creating a sachet of good luck herbs to hang around the neck of a friend.

So she had begun to research. When she wasn’t performing her courtly duties assisting the queen’s daughter, she was studying the few old texts she could beg or borrow in the hopes of finding a love charm – something, anything to attract the attention of her beloved Alasdair.

Finally, after many long nights spent studying and distracted days spent yawning, she found what she was looking for in a ragged book of potions which had been hidden away in the castle library: a concoction which promised to turn one into a potential lover’s “most cherished dream.”

That was enough for Penelope. Over the next few weeks, she took on the arduous process of gathering the supplies she needed: a tablespoon of angelica pollen, three shed scales of a wyrm, the wax of a red candle, and so on. The list was frustratingly long, but she was patient and, after a month, she had gotten everything except for the last and most important ingredient: a single eyelash from the object of her affections.

Finally, her opportunity came as she was departing an address given by the king – something about loyalty and the need to pay your taxes and register all witchcraft or something – she hadn’t been listening – when she saw Alasdair out of the corner of her eye.

“My lord, you have something on your cheek,” she said abruptly and without preamble.

Alasdair looked confused and a little nervous. He brushed at his cheek, but – thankfully – the wrong one. “Is it, uh, gone?”

“Let me get it,” Penelope said quickly, snatching the eyelash which was resting on the man’s cheek. She held it tightly between her fingers, her glee almost overwhelming.

Alasdair looked slightly taken aback, and then turned very, very red.

“Well, my lord,” she said, “I must be going.” She turned on her heel and began walking back to her room at a rapid pace.

“Wait, Lady Penelope,” she heard from behind her. “I have something that I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She let his voice trail off, too focused on her task to care.

She pulled the rope on the trap door that led up to her tiny room and scurried up the ladder into it and shut and locked it behind her. She pulled her potion making equipment – the small cauldron, the candles, the chalk, the ingredients – out from under her bed and set to work.

After about half an hour, she had it ready: a small quantity of a deep red, glistening liquid. It smelled pleasant – sweet and spicy. A little thrill went through Penelope, and she looked over into the full-length mirror at herself one last time, wondering what this would change. Maybe she’d finally be a redhead.

Steeling herself, she downed the potion. It tasted as good as it smelled – a rich, undefinable flavor that coated her tongue pleasantly as the warm draught slid down her throat and into her stomach.

“Nothing to do but wait now,” she said to herself as she plopped onto her bed across from the mirror and watched with interest to see how she would change.

For a minute, nothing happened. She felt very warm and lethargic, but nothing was obviously changing – her eyes, her nose, her mouth, and her hair were all the exact same. With some disappointment, Penelope began to conclude that the potion had been a failure.

Standing up, she smoothed down the front of her dress and felt something surprising. The fabric had somehow become tighter than it had been when she put the garment on that morning. She prodded the area, finding that her flesh had become soft and pliant. Where normally she would feel her ribs there was a layer of plush new flesh.

She looked back at herself in the mirror and gasped. She was… growing?

Before her eyes, her thin frame was slowly morphing into a soft, curved one. Her belly was slowly filling out, going from the flat board it had been to a slightly rounded gut. Her narrow, stick-like arms were suddenly full and fleshy, and she could feel that under her long skirt her skinny thighs were blowing up to the point that they were pressed up against each other.

Just as quickly as it had started, the transformation stopped and Penelope had a moment to admire her handiwork. It made sense – she’d always been thinner than was in-fashion, so this was a pleasant change. She reached up and experimentally fondled one of her breasts with her hands and was quite pleased to find that it was larger and fuller than it had been. Lord Alasdair, she reflected, had good taste.

As she did this, however, she was filled with the warm lethargic feeling again and realized that the transformation was not over. This time, however, she realized that the spell was not to end so quickly.