Megala Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Avenged Fairy Tales Series

  Sweet Nothings Preview

  Megala

  Avenged Fairy Tales

  Daria Doshrelli

  Copyright © 2020 by Daria Doshrelli

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by 100Covers

  Chapter 1

  In the second year after Nathal Hornpew, Lord of Edgeview Manor, took a wife as gloomy as he, the lady gave birth to a baby girl with black fuzz on top of her head. When the child failed to cry the midwife administered a swift smack to her posterior region. This prompted, not a protest, but a laugh. The servants whispered among themselves that it must be a sign. Of what, nobody knew.

  Lady Hornpew, of somber disposition like her husband, insisted on an inspection of her offspring’s locks the instant she was birthed. Black they were, as coal and midnight. She heartily approved the color and summoned her family’s fairy godmother to see what blessing she might bestow. Raven-black hair was the height of fashion. The girl was sure to be a success when she came out into society. With this in mind, Lady Hornpew resolved on a particular demand to ensure her hopes of balls and swarms of admirers for her daughter.

  The godmother, Jusilla by name, swept into the room in a whirl of magic. Such an entry was a bit overdone, but she was newly admitted to her role and eager to please. “Did I hear someone call for a fairy godmother?”

  Lady Hornpew failed to appreciate the tinkling voice, the sparkling eyes, the rosy cheeks. Fairy godmothers were an impossibly exuberant lot, their ministrations equal parts delightful and disturbing. And this one had a tendency to attempt originality in her work. Never a good sign. But surely a very humble gift could hardly go wrong?

  Jusilla granted the lady’s request without hesitation and without consulting the infant’s father. “The child’s hair will grow long and full to the end of her days.” With these words a twinkle of magic flowed from her mouth and settled on the newborn babe.

  The infant gazed up into her mother’s uneasy eyes, her little lips moving around in search of something. Nothing astonishing at all occurred, and so Lady Hornpew offered a gentle, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jusilla sang out and whirled away in the same manner as she had come.

  Mother and child nestled themselves together, the lady stroking her daughter’s head as she nursed. With each brush of her fingertips she imagined the fuzz thickened and lengthened. Surely the godmother’s gift would not be so hasty in its work?

  Before she could ponder the curiosity, a poof of smoke across the room caught her eye. She clutched her child to her chest. “Mathilde?”

  The family’s former fairy godmother stood scowling, still in her ancient robes, though she had been banished on account of her blessings turning into curses. Everybody knew what that meant. “Having a birthday celebration without me?”

  Lady Hornpew was too terrified to reply.

  “An ordinary godmother might be insulted, but I will not blame the child for her mother and father’s oversight. With such a history as I have with the family, I could not be offended over so slight a thing.” Mathilde glided toward the pair on the bed.

  “No! Leave her alone! Servants! Nathal!” Lady Hornpew hastily recovered her clothing, prompting a coo from her daughter whose breakfast had been snatched away.

  But the lady’s cries were too late. “You wished for her hair to grow long and full? Very well.” Mathilde stepped closer. “Grow she shall with all her might, no mortal soul may respite.” She breathed these words over the child, a glint of darkness in her eyes, and the deed was done. A grin stretched her red lips, still glittering with magic. The malevolent being poofed away just as an army of servants clamored into the room.

  Lady Hornpew cried and begged, but there was nothing for it. Neither her husband nor the servants nor the doctor knew of a remedy for a fairy godmother’s curse. The lady summoned Jusilla, who returned late the same night, overworked by her many patrons, underwhelmed by this recent catastrophe, and perfectly lacking in sparkle.

  “I may not undo the curse since Mathilde is of greater rank than I, but I may amend it.” Jusilla leaned over the child. “Grow she shall, with all her might, until true love’s song does respite.” These words she breathed out and the helpless infant received her third dose of fairy godmother intervention on the day of her birth.

  Her mother named her Meg, as if the size of her name might lessen the effects of Mathilde’s curse. It did not.

  At three months a cow was required to meet the demand for milk. A month later, two cows. By the time sweet Meg was ready to wean, the local milk suppliers had been sorely abused. Lord Hornpew’s droves of sheep had to serve as her diaper factory. The lake became her bath, and four maid were needed to finish the task. Meg sang and laughed and splashed, bringing cheer to even the most sober, soaked faces. Still, nobody knew what to do with her.

  When she outgrew the crib, the bed, the nursery itself, they put her up in the barn where she stayed with the cows and horses, who seemed not to mind. When the ill-fated servant boy came to muck out the stalls, he mucked out Meg’s as well. Instruction in manner and etiquette was supplanted by toilet training. At last she outgrew these measures and blossomed into a young lady of eight, able to gather her own food, cook her own meals, sew her own clothes, and see to her own toilet. The manor heaved a sigh of relief.

  Each year on her birthday Meg’s parents held a feast where every eligible male far and wide was compelled, coerced, and bribed to sing to her an ode. But no true love was found and the curse continued its work.

  Meg’s hair grew, true to Jusilla’s blessing, but raven black slowly faded to shimmering goldenrod. This was the last straw. Lady Hornpew blamed her husband for the entire matter as it was his family’s godmother that had gone astray.

  “But you’re the one who summoned Jusilla,” Lord Hornpew fumed. “And how useful she turned out to be! You should have known Mathilde would be furious.”

  A single tear trickled down the lady’s cheek. “Never trust a fairy godmother.”

  With this declaration she packed her trunks and called for her carriage to convey her back to her own family’s estate. Meg would be left behind. After all, there was no place for a giant girl among the elite of society no matter how well she presented herself, how sweet her voice or gentle her temperament. The lady pressed a dainty handkerchief to the corners of her eyes to erase the evidence of tender feeling so unbecoming a woman of rank. On this subject her mind was made up. Mother and daughter would reunite when the curse was broken and the girl’s hair returned to an acceptable hue.

  Meg shed mournful tears for the loss of her mother and these created a pool in the center of Lady Hornpew’s prized rose garden. And there Meg sat, alone and unloved. Lord Hornpew shook his head at the sight but offered no comfort. He would have to figure out something to do with the girl, but with her in her weepy state, not a thing could be contrived at present without risk of ruining his best suit. The servants, though sorrowful for the sake of the sweet child, deemed her better off without such a mother, and let her be.

  When at last the tears dried, Meg’s father began to suspect great potential in the girl as a warrior. Yet it was only her size that was terrifying, her temperament being much too mild. His disappointment at her giggles and grins retreated when s
he landed her first blow, accidental of course, as she was bound to mow over a warrior or two over at some point. Still, a victory was a victory, however unintentional. Lord Hornpew doubled her training regimen on the spot.

  But the girl was incorrigible. She refused to fight and only cried when his servants tried to teach her. Her father commanded her to charge the enemy. She sat and picked daisies. He demonstrated the art of savage battle cries. Her voice produced only song and giggle. Even her tantrums were mild and she was easily coaxed back into good cheer. At last he relented. The girl was useless.

  When she reached the age of twelve and a height of four stories, his thoughts toward his daughter became more agreeable to him. He sought to let her out at an exorbitant price for any number of worldly pursuits. At least then she might bear the cost of her own upkeep. The bill for her tailor was insupportable and she was eating him out of manor and home.

  That she would never be a soldier was plain from his own attempts to convert her in this respect. Nevertheless, he spread news of her far and wide and took whatever offers came. Many came to gawk at the giant called Meg, but Lord Hornpew only smiled at the throngs and refused the servants’ entreaties to send them away. Such notoriety was sure to bring about some happy end and he needed only bide his time.

  Nobody had ever seen a giant girl before and Meg’s name soon became a common term for anything astonishingly large. At first Lord Hornpew managed to acquire only odd jobs for her, but as her stature increased, her potential could hardly be overlooked.

  One day a hunter, imbued with a sudden stroke of brilliance, thought up the perfect use for Meg’s extraordinary capacity, and requested her services for an entire year to replace his dogs. She was to find and chase the game so he could shoot it. This was great fun until Meg realized the fate of the poor creatures and started chasing them away. Thereafter she refused to eat meat as well. Alas, the hunter had no farmland and could not bear the cost of vegetables to satisfy her appetite. He returned her to her father before the end of the first season.

  The builder her father rented her to for the sake of transporting timbers and stones complained that the materials rarely made it to their destination. More often than not Meg used them to cook herself a loaf of bread, a porridge or a stew along the way. Alas, the builder could not bear the ravenous cost of her appetite and returned her before the lease was up.

  The realm’s third richest man, owner of all the cattle and sheep on forty hills, proclaimed the giant girl’s real value was as a protector of flocks. Upon her release from the builder, the rich man immediately procured her services. For three whole months not an animal was taken by the wolves. He boasted loudly of his own resourcefulness until the afternoon he caught the object of his praise picking flowers and singing of true love when she was supposed to be guarding the sheep. It was then that he noticed how idle the girl really was and how his own storehouses had been ravaged to feed her. At this rate, in another month he would be only the fourth richest man in the realm.

  With as much haste as he acquired her, he returned her to her father. The girl only ate and picked daisies and sang all the day long. That was the complaint. True, no cattle or sheep had been lost on her watch, but, alas, the rich man could not bear the cost of her ravenous appetite.

  Hearing these grievances, Meg’s father realized the one trick he had missed. His giantess had become a woman.

  He observed his carefree daughter sitting in his field picking flowers and humming a familiar tune. Her voice was lovely. Too bad she was such a case. But daisies and singing about true love could mean only one thing.

  At last his opportunity had come.

  The girl was sixteen years and seven stories tall. This, he knew. But what nobody saw, not even Meg herself, was a silver arrow, straight and true. It pierced her heart, her soul, her very being. The shooter whirled away in flurry of rose petals.

  Chapter 2

  Meg continued as she ever was, oblivious to the magical scheme set in motion. Her only friend was George, a strange boy who called himself by another name and lived in a shoe. She was just passing through the forest at the edge of her daisy field and there he was, sitting in the upper branches of a pine tree.

  But she didn’t see him at first and had grown a story or two since the last time she had attempted this shortcut. A few more curves graced her form, too, and one of them failed to squeeze through the path between the trees. Her clumsiness knocked the boy right off of his branch. Her eye almost missed her error, but she cupped her hands, lunged out and caught him just as he tumbled to his death in a howl of protest.

  He landed with a soft splat in her palms and lay there on his back looking up at her. “Thank you,” he gasped out.

  “Oh.” Meg took a deep breath and lowered her voice. The poor boy must be terrified of her and her thundering. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I did not see you.”

  The boy sat up. A swatch of pinecone-colored hair fell over his eyes. He swept it back with one of his miniature hands and turned a pair of twinkling eyes up at her. “I suppose you’ll want to know why I was in your tree?”

  Meg shrugged as daintily as possible.

  “I heard singing so beautiful I just had to find out where it came from, so I climbed up to get a look around. There you were, strolling into that field over there, signing all the while and…I watched until you stopped.” A sheepish look spread over his face. “I was about to climb down when…” He looked into her eyes and stirred her soul with his shy smile.

  “When I bumped into your tree?” Meg said quietly.

  “Yes, but no harm done and it did allow me to meet you, after all.” His grin widened. “Fortuitous is my name, and I heard you’re called Meg?”

  She nodded. “Pleased to meet you. Where would you like me to set you down?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here awhile. You have the most beautiful eyes…and your voice…just all of you is lovely and…” His smile faded and he snapped his mouth shut. “I’ll be quiet now if you like. My talking has earned me a lot of whippings but I’m afraid it’s incorrigible.”

  Meg tried to suppress the giggle in her belly, but it squeaked out. She looked at the strange boy again. His shirt was too long for him and his pants too short. But he had very nice brown leather shoes that matched his eyes, and his eyes matched his hair. A few of the same-colored hairs clung to his chin. “No, I like to hear you talk. Nobody talks to me anymore.” She pressed her lips together and drew in a slow breath to still the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes and drown her new acquaintance. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

  “I live over the hill.” His head jerked to the east. “You can see my house from here.” He scrambled to his feet and pointed to a tall, odd-looking thing in the distance Meg had often wondered about.

  “Is that…?” She squinted against the sun.

  “Yes, it’s a shoe,” Fortuitous said with a tremendous sigh. “My family’s a bunch of cobblers and my mother thinks the shape of the house is good for business.” He frowned and tipped his head down.

  “Oh, I’ve heard of your mother. She made all of my shoes…when I had shoes.” Meg stuck out one leg and wiggled its bare toes.

  “More like had us kids make them,” he said in a grumble, his eyes inspecting her gigantic foot. “She only had us so we could be her slaves.”

  Meg saw sadness in his eyes instead of horror at the size of her hooves, and was overcome by an urge to cheer him up. “Thank you for working so hard on my shoes. I’m too big for them now, but they were nice while they lasted....” But she didn’t want to talk about her curse. “I heard you have a lot of brothers and sisters and your mother kisses you all soundly and puts you to bed.” What must that be like?

  “More like whips us all soundly in case we did something we shouldn’t have that she didn’t see.” He grinned. “We usually did.”

  Meg gingerly lowered herself onto the ground and brought her knees up so she could rest her
elbows on her lap. But the boy she still cradled very gently in her gigantic hands supported by her gigantic knees. “She must love you very much to give you such a name as Fortuitous.”

  “I don’t think she loves any of us at all…and I gave myself my new name.”

  Meg didn’t know anybody else had a mother who didn’t love them. When she had children, she would love them all no matter how big they got or how they multiplied…if she ever managed to find her true love and break the curse. Her parents had obviously given up. But she turned her mind back to the boy in her hands. “You named yourself Fortuitous? Why not Lucky instead?”

  His mouth popped open and his eyes bugged out. “Lucky? Bah! With a name like that you’re just asking for trouble. But Fortuitous, now I bet that draws good juju.”

  “Juju?” Meg’s forehead crinkled up.

  “You know, like fairy godmother stuff.”

  “Oh. I’m not particularly fond of fairy godmothers.”

  “What?” Fortuitous gave her a wide-eyed look. “I would have loved a fairy godmother’s blessing, but my family doesn’t have a godmother…something about glass slippers instead of the correct order of wooden cogs, and the resulting future probable alteration of an entire realm’s destiny…I’m not really sure.” His face sobered, and Meg wished the expression away. She thought him much more handsome when he smiled. “Nobody will give you a straight answer until you’re at least twenty-two.” He crossed his arms and wrinkled up his brow. “I’m thinking about running away, anyhow.”

  “Why?”

  “On account of my mother calling me George.”

  Meg thought for a moment. “That’s not so bad.”

  “It is when there are twenty of you. My father’s always away peddling our wares, except twice a year when he comes home. Our mother decided to name all of us children after him so she would feel like he was always with her instead of always gone. But then we started being born and things got complicated. First there was Georgiana and Georgette, then Georgie, Georgia, and Jorge. These were twins and triplets, of course. Georgetta and Giorgio came next, or so they say. After that she forgot which version of George she named us, so we were all just plain George, even the girls. But I’m the most unlucky of all.” He shook his sad head. “Each of my brothers and sisters was birthed in two’s or three’s, but I arrived just the one.” His lower lip poked out. “The labor pains were short and I came out small and with all of my colorful parts just plain brown…” He pointed two fingers at his eyeballs, his hair. “…so I’m not all that impressive. In serial order, I’m George thirteen, but sometimes dear old Ma forgets even that and she calls me number twelve or fourteen, or whichever one you are. The only time she even remembers she had me is when it’s time to assign the chores. When I told her my new name, she just laughed at me and rubbed my hairy brown head.”