Black and white photo of a woman's arm with a shaded bow tattoo on the upper arm, a diamond tattoo on the forearm and a lips tattoo on the bare midriff, with script and a wing above.

Bow, diamond and lips tattoos in black and white

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows a bow tattoo on the upper arm, a shaded diamond on the forearm and a pair of lips on the bare midriff, with fine script and a feather or wing design visible higher on the torso. The tattoos use black ink with grey shading, with soft tonal gradients in the bow and lips. The image is black and white, with a plain light background and a woman wearing black lace shorts and a black lace glove.

Realism Upper arm Forearm Back Other Bow Diamond Lip Script Wing Feather Lace

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The letters came up the valley road every Thursday in a satchel that smelled of wet wool, and I read them on the stone stair of Hallowmere because the solar roof had fallen in years before and the light was best there. My brother Edmund wrote in a looping hand, all flourishes, as though ink cost him nothing. This week he wanted the diamond from the chapel reliquary sent down to Arden Cross before the bailiff counted the silver. He called it the stone of the true water and promised a fair price from a jeweller who asked no questions.

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The reliquary was a cold box of black oak, its lid tied with a bow of lace that had once been a glove. Under the lid lay no diamond at all, only a sliver of grey glass wrapped in a crow's wing feather to keep it from the damp. I held it to the window and the light broke into small white lips of colour across the wall, and I understood that the real stone had gone to Arden Cross years ago, sold by someone who had signed the letters in my brother's hand.

I sat on the stair until the candle guttered. Then I wrote a reply in Edmund's looping script, saying the stone was gone and the chapel was empty, and sealed it with the wax that still bore our mother's mark. I left it on the reliquary lid, tucked beneath the bow, and walked out past the broken portcullis with the glass in my pocket. Let the bailiff count what he liked. Somewhere in Arden Cross a man would open the letter and find that the true water had never been anything but glass.