The Library returned to normal—but a blow of sadness struck Flora in her heart as the name of the panel spoke in her mind. The Golden Leaf. Suddenly the beauty of the strange story was loathsome and Flora felt a terrible grief—but nothing had happened, nor was she hurt in any way. She stepped back from the fifth panel. It was deeply disturbing—and yet, even as Flora recoiled from the dark and twisting feeling that had risen in her heart, a little part of her mind whispered praise for her own endurance. She had read five stories! How pleased the Queen would be with her, and how wonderful to be able to help the busy priestesses!

There was one last story. The sixth panel smelled inert, yet it held a powerful stillness. Cautiously, Flora focused on it. Nothing happened; no scent, no image, no sound came forth, but the air in the Library grew warm and close. From the center of the little panel blew a faint trace of fresh air. Feeling like she was suffocating, Flora could not help going closer.

The Library vanished and she smelled the Nursery. One crib pulled her closer, huge and dark. Deep within it a baby cried in pain, and a cold wind howled. As Flora ran toward it the crib began to rattle and break apart. The baby cried louder, and as she leaned over the crib to see it, a twisting black comet screamed out of its depths and into her brain.

FLORA CAME TO HER SENSES back in the ladies’ quarters, lying on a bed. She heard Lady Burnet and the others talking quietly—until they heard her sit up.

“Such vanity,” Lady Burnet said, “such folly.”

Flora stood up. Her body trembled, and she looked around in fear, but all was quiet.

“Crawling out of there raving and ranting,” continued Lady Burnet. “Comets and cribs—I am sure Holy Mother said nothing about touching those panels—”

“She did—” Flora’s voice was thin. “She wanted to know—”

“Tales of terror and madness? You surely misunderstood Her Majesty, for only the priestesses may touch the Sacred Mysteries—why would she ever ask you, a sanitation worker? I think the wasp cost you your senses.”

“Yes, my lady.” Flora’s heart filled with shame at her mistake. She had misunderstood the Queen, and been foolish and vain.

“Despite that,” said Lady Burnet, “Holy Mother is ever-loving and forgiving, and has asked that you attend her.” She stood back, her face rigid with resentment.

“Do not keep Her Majesty waiting.”

THE QUEEN WAS RESTING on her couch in a shimmering golden aura, but she opened it to admit Flora, then closed it around them. Flora wanted to talk, to tell Holy Mother about her experiences in the Library, but each time she tried to speak, the greatest weariness took her tongue, and she felt tears rising.

“Hush, little daughter,” the Queen said softly. “We heard that you read them all. We too once knew them, but it was many eggs ago, and we have forgotten.” She smiled and stroked Flora’s face. “You will recover.”

Flora nestled against her wise and beautiful mother, breathing the healing fragrance of her Love deep into her body. It had changed—in the subtlest way, but distinctly. Something was new in its molecular structure, but just as Flora sniffed it deeper, the Queen twisted and gasped in pain.

“Mother!” Flora leaped up. “What is it? Shall I call one of the ladies?”

“No”—she gripped Flora’s arm and pulled her back—“no. Stay with me.”

Pressed against the Queen, Flora felt another shudder pass through both their bodies. “Holy Mother, let me call them—”

“No—” Pain clamped the Queen’s voice. “We need no assistance.” Then whatever seized her relaxed its hold, and she let go of Flora. She flexed her great abdomen and settled herself again. “Our Progress was normal today. We filled every crib with life, did we not?”

Flora could not speak, for the reverberation of the Queen’s pain was still ebbing from her own body.

“If we had missed one, our ladies would say—that is their job, but they did not, so all must be well.” Her Majesty took a deep breath. “It must be the cold. Has our hive been cold, daughter?”

“Not to me, Holy Mother,” said Flora, “but they say my fur is so coarse my kin feels nothing.”

The Queen smiled, and her scent flowed strong again.

“All is well. But do not speak of this to anyone, do you understand?” She wrapped her fragrance around Flora’s antennae. “Promise me,” whispered the Queen.

Enraptured, Flora nodded. “I promise . . .”

The Queen kissed Flora’s head. “Go.”

NONE OF THE LADIES looked up as Flora emerged from the Queen’s sanctum. As she sat down with them, those closest got up and moved. Lady Burnet’s face was neutral, but she stabbed her embroidery hoop with her golden needle.

“Lady Burnet, forgive me if I have offended you—”

“Me? Oh, no.” Lady Burnet smiled but her eyes were cold. “Your boldness does credit to a drone—but is simply out of place here.” The ladies heard footsteps in the passageway outside, then came a timid knock on the door.

“Ah! Enter.” Lady Burnet rose.

It was a very young sister also from Burnet, her fur already teased and styled like that of a lady-in-waiting. She curtsied perfectly to them all, antennae demure and downcast.

“Flora 717,” announced Lady Burnet, “your time with the Queen has ended, and with it, all privilege of access. Leave now.”

“Now? But Holy Mother will wonder—”

“You flatter yourself. She will not. Now back to Sanitation where you belong.”

FLORA WENT BLINDLY. The pain of Lady Burnet’s words, the humiliation of her sudden expulsion, and, most of all, the folly of imagining she had a permanent place serving the Queen in her chambers . . .

She could not feel one pulsing foot-track, one scented code—all she was conscious of was the thinning of the scent of the Queen’s Love, weaker with every step she took away from her presence—and the dull ache in her belly that had started when the Queen gasped. It was stronger now, concentrating itself deep within her abdomen.

Flora stopped. Holy Mother needed her. She needed to be cared for. She, Flora 717, should not have listened to Lady . . . Lady . . . All the names of the ladies-in-waiting slid from her mind. She tried to place them all, sitting on their chairs . . . but the memory blurred as she summoned it. The Library—the panels—the scent-stories Holy Mother had asked her to learn . . . everything faded to nothing, except the disturbing new sensation in her belly.

Flora looked down at her body. Her legs were still striped with propolis, her fur still pomaded with curls and patterns. She had not imagined it; she had been taken there. She had met the Queen and been wrapped in her Love. Flora searched her body for any trace of that sweet scent, but it had completely vanished.

She started to shiver. Sisters passed all around her, their antennae streaming with nonsense and gossip and instructions. Everything they said was meaningless and angered her, because all she craved was the Queen’s Love. Desperately, Flora began to groom herself, searching for some filament, any remnant of the blissful scent, but all she tasted was folly and vanity. To her relief she heard a bell, and then felt a faint vibration running through the ground.

It signaled Devotion, the service she had not needed to attend for as long as she served the Queen. Flora spread her feet wide to locate the nearest place of worship. It came from directly beneath her, in the Dance Hall on the lowest level of the hive, where the power of a thousand sisters was already gathered. A crowd of workers poured past to get there in time. Empty and heartbroken from her expulsion, Flora ran to join them.

Twelve

THE MOOD OF THE SISTERS IN THE DANCE HALL WAS agitated. Flora was crowded wing to wing with sisters of every kin, and her mind and body clawed with the need for the Queen’s Love. Other bees were also anxious, and she heard many complaining of hunger. Still they waited. A few bees began to emit jerky little buzzes of fear as the divine pheromone level dropped, but others with more in their bodies touched them and hummed reassurance as they shared what little they had left. Then with a jolt the floor trembled, the vibration surged, and the scent of the Queen’s Love began to rise. Those sisters with room to move knelt down on the comb and wept in relief, while others lifted their heads to hum the Holy Chord. At the vibration in the comb and change in the air Flora pressed her six feet down into the wax, opened her spiracles, and drew the fragrance deep into her body.