Black and grey crown tattoo with a heart above it and script lettering on the thigh, shown in two photos, one wider and one close up.

Crown and script quote on the thigh

Lettering · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey crown tattoo sits on the outer thigh, with a small heart at its peak and shaded jewelled details along the band. Curved script runs above the crown, reading in part though she be but little, and below it reads She is fierce. The left photo shows the tattoo from further away on a bare leg, while the right photo is a close-up with the lettering sharp and fully in frame.

Lettering Thigh Crown Heart Script Quote Jewel

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The paper crown was the first thing I noticed when I wheeled the trolley into bay three. Somebody had pulled it from a Christmas cracker and pinned it to the drip stand with a safety pin, and it tilted above Maisie, who was refusing, at volume, to let anyone near her left wrist. Her nan had brought the sentence in with her, written in biro on the back of a chemist's receipt: though she be but little, she is fierce. She read it aloud to the curtain rail as if it were a prescription she meant to dispute.

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Maisie had come in at ten past midnight after her scooter met a kerb outside the chippy on Harbour Road. By two she had bitten the junior doctor, kicked a sharps bin across the floor and told the radiographer his machine smelled of toast. The X-ray showed a clean break through the end of the radius. I set the cast with Deepa at the other end of the bed, and Maisie watched every turn of the bandage with the grim attention of a jeweller. 'Does it hurt more when you're sad or when you're brave?' she asked. I said I didn't know. She said that was a rubbish answer, and I had to admit it was.

By four the ward had gone quiet, the monitors ticking like a clock that had forgotten the time. Maisie was asleep with the cast propped on a pillow and the crown slipped down over one eye. Her nan had gone to the family room with a flask. I stood at the drip stand and straightened the crown. It was flimsy, the gold foil already peeling, and it had survived a whole night of being knocked, ignored and used as a bookmark by a porter.

Maisie stirred, opened her one good eye and squinted at me. 'Is it true?' she said. 'Am I?' 'You are,' I said. She shut her eye again. 'Told you,' she muttered, and went back under.