Dedication

For Adrian

Epigraph

The bee’s life is like a magic well: the more you draw from it, the more it fills with water.

—KARL VON FRISCH

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

THE OLD ORCHARD STOOD BESIEGED. TO ONE SIDE SPREAD a vast, arable plain, a dullard’s patchwork of corn and soy reaching to the dark tree line of the hills. To the other, a light-industrial development stretched toward the town.

Between the dripping trees the remains of a path still showed. A man in early middle age kicked at the tall nettles and docks to widen it. Neat in her navy business suit, a younger woman followed. She paused to take some photographs with her phone.

“I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve put out some feelers, and we’re already beating them off with sticks. Prime brownfield location.”

The man stared through the trees, not listening.

“There—thought for a moment it had vanished.”

An old wooden beehive stood camouflaged against the trees. The woman drew back.

“I won’t come any closer,” she said. “I’m a bit funny about insects.”

“So’s my father. He calls them his girls.” The man looked up at the low gray sky. “Is that more rain? What happened to summer?”

The woman glanced up from her phone. “I know! I’ve forgotten what blue sky looks like. Must be hard with the kids out of school.”

“They barely notice. They’re always online.”

He walked forward and peered closer at the hive.

A few bees emerged from a small hole at the bottom. They walked along a narrow wooden ledge and hummed their wings.

He watched them for a while, then turned back to her. “I’m sorry. Now is not the right time.”

“Oh!” She put her phone away. “Have you—changed your mind?”

He shook his head.

“No. I’ll sell . . .” He cleared his throat. “But not yet. It feels wrong.”

“Of course.” She hesitated. “I suppose it’s very hard to know approximately . . . ?”

“Could be months. Could be tomorrow.”

The woman allowed a respectful silence.

“Well, rest assured that when you are ready, it’s a seller’s market.”

She began walking back along the path.

The man stood alone by the hive. On impulse he put his palm against the wood, as if feeling for a pulse. Then he turned and followed her.

Behind them, bees rose into the brightening air.

One

THE CELL SQUEEZED HER, AND THE AIR WAS HOT AND fetid. All the joints of her body burned from her frantic twisting against the walls. Her head was pressed into her chest and her legs shot with cramps, but her struggles had worked—one wall felt weaker. She kicked out with all her strength and felt something crack and break. She forced and tore and bit until there was a jagged hole into fresher air beyond.

She dragged her body through and fell out onto the floor of an alien world. Static roared through her brain, thunderous vibrations shook the ground, and a thousand scents dazed her mind. All she could do was breathe until gradually the vibration and static subsided and the scent evaporated into the air. Her rigid body unlocked and she calmed as knowledge filled her mind.

This was the Arrivals Hall, and she was a worker.

Her kin was flora and her number was 717.

Certain of her first task, she set about cleaning out her cell. In her violent struggle to hatch she had broken the whole front wall, unlike her neater neighbors. She looked, then followed their example, piling her debris neatly by the ruins. The activity cleared her senses, and she felt the vastness of the Arrivals Hall and how the vibrations in the air changed in different areas.

Row upon row of cells like hers stretched into the distance, and there the cells were quiet but resonant, as if the occupants still slept. Immediately around her was great activity, with many recently broken and cleared-out chambers and many more cracking and falling as new bees arrived. The differing scents of her neighbors also came into focus, some sweeter, some sharper, all of them pleasant to absorb.

With a hard, erratic pulse in the ground, a young female came running down the corridor between the cells, her face frantic.

“Halt!” Harsh voices reverberated from both ends of the corridor and a strong, astringent scent rose in the air. Every bee stopped moving except the young female, who stumbled and fell across Flora’s pile of debris. Then she clawed her way into the remains of the broken cell and huddled in the corner, her little hands up.

Cloaked in a bitter scent that hid their faces and made them identical, dark figures strode down the corridor toward Flora. Pushing her aside, they dragged out the weeping young bee. At the sight of their spiked gauntlets, a spasm of fear in Flora’s brain released more knowledge. They were police.

“You fled inspection.” One of them pulled at the girl’s wings so another could examine the four still-wet membranes. The edge of one was shriveled.

“Spare me,” she cried. “I will not fly; I will serve in any other way—”

“Deformity is evil. Deformity is not permitted.”

Before the young bee could speak the two officers pressed her head down until there was a sharp crack. She hung limp between them and they dropped her body in the corridor.

“You.” Their peculiar rasping voice addressed Flora. She did not know which one spoke, so she stared at the black hooks on the backs of their legs. “Hold still.” Long black calipers slid from their gauntlets and they measured her height. “Excessive variation. Abnormal.”

“That will be all, officers.” At the kind voice and fragrant smell, the police released Flora. They bowed to a tall and well-groomed bee with a beautiful face.

“Sister Sage. This one is obscenely ugly.”

“And excessively large—”

“It would appear so. Thank you, officers, you may go.”

Sister Sage waited for them to leave. She smiled at Flora.

“To fear them is good. Be still while I read your kin—”

“I am Flora 717.”

Sister Sage raised her antennae. “A sanitation worker who speaks. Most notable . . . ”

Flora stared at her tawny-and-gold face with its huge dark eyes. “Am I to be killed?”

“Do not question a priestess.” Sister Sage ran her hands down the sides of Flora’s face. “Open your mouth.” She looked inside. “Perhaps.” Then she inclined her head over Flora’s mouth and fed her one golden drop of honey.