Salvador Dali Portrait of the Cellist Ricard Pichot

Magrat couldn’t help noticing that Diamanda was strik-ingly good-looking and, from what she’d heard, quite brave enough to stand up to Granny Weatherwax. She could hardly wait to get her better so that she could envy her properly.
The wound seemed to be healing up nicely, but there seemed to be—
Magrat strode to the bellpull in the comer and hauled on it.
After a minute or two Shawn Ogg arrived, panting.
There was gold paint on his hands.
“What,” said Magrat, “are all these things?”
“Um. Don’t like to say, ma’am ...”
“One happens to be ... very nearly ... the queen,” said Magrat.
“Yes, but the king Shawn looked at his feet. There was gold paint on his boots, too.
“Well, our mum said ...”
“Yes?”
“Our mum said I was to see to it that there was iron round her. So me and Millie got some bars from down the smithy and wrapped ‘em up like this and Millie packed ‘em round her.”said ... well. Granny said—““Granny Weatherwax does not happen to rule the king-dom,” said Magrat. She hated herself when she spoke like this, but it seemed to work. “And anyway she’s not here. One is here, however, and if you don’t tell one what’s going on I’ll see to it that you do all the dirty jobs around the palace.”“But I do all the dirty jobs anyway,” said Shawn.“I shall see to it that there are dirtier ones.”Magrat picked up one of the bundles. It was made up of strips of sheet wrapped around what turned out to be an iron bar.“They’re all around her,” she said. “Why?”