John William Waterhouse Boreas

John William Waterhouse BoreasJohn William Waterhouse AriadneJohn William Waterhouse A MermaidVincent van Gogh Houses at AuversVincent van Gogh Tree trunks
Magrat sized up the door. The oak was old, centuries old, but she could sense just a little sap under a surface varnished by the years into something that was nearly as tough as stone. Normally what she had in mind would require a day's planning and a bagful of exotic ingredients. At least, so she'd always believed. Now she was prepared to doubt it.
If you could conjure demons out of washtubs, you could do anything.
She in the wood must know that. Or if it had forgotten, it must be told.
She put her palms flat on the door again and shut her eyes, tried to think her way out through the stone, out of the castle, and into the thin, black soil of the mountains, into the air, into the sunlight . . .
The Fool was merely aware that Magrat was standing very still. Then her hair stood out from her headbecame aware that the Fool had spoken.'Oh, I expect I heard it somewhere,' she said vaguely.'I shouldn't think so, I never use it,' said the Fool. 'I mean, it's not a popular name with the duke. It was me mam, you see. They like to name you after kings, I suppose. My grandad said I had no business having a name like that and he said I shouldn't go around—'Magrat nodded. She was looking around the dank tunnel with a professional's eye.It wasn't a promising place. The old oak planks had been down here in the darkness all these years, away from the clock of the seasons . . .On the other hand . . . Granny had said that somehow all trees were one tree, or something like that. Magrat thought she understood it, although she didn't know exactly what it meant. And it was springtime up there. The ghost of life that still lived