Rembrandt Bathsheba at Her Bath

Rembrandt Bathsheba at Her BathLord Frederick Leighton WeddedLord Frederick Leighton The Fisherman and the SyrenJean Auguste Dominique Ingres Perseus and AndromedaGuido Reni The Coronation of the Virgin
'Hmm?' said the dwarf, his mind wrestling with ways of building thunder-and-lightning machines.
'There's no crown, Hwel. I've got to wear a crown.'
'Of course there's a crown. The big one with the red glass, very impressive, we used it in that place with the big square—'
'I think we left it there.'
There was another tinny roll of thunder but, even so, the part of Hwel that was living the play heard a faltering voice on stage. He darted to the wings.
'—I have It would be nice to say it tingled under his hand. Perhaps it did.

Granny was sitting as still as a statue, and almost as cold. The horror of realisation was stealing over her.
'That's us,' she said. 'Round that silly cauldron. That's meant to be us, Gytha.'smother'd many a babe—' he hissed, and sprinted back.'Well, just find another one, then,' he said vaguely. 'In the props box. You're the Evil King, you've got to have a crown. Get on with it, lad, you're on in a few minutes. Improvise.'Tomjon wandered back to the box. He'd grown up among crowns, big golden crowns made of wood and plaster, studded with finest glass. He'd cut his teeth on the hat-brims of Authority. But most of them had been left in the Dysk now. He pulled out collapsible daggers and skulls and vases, the strata of the years and, right at the bottom, his fingers closed on something thin and crown shaped, which no-one had ever wanted to wear because it looked so uncrownly.