It had no effect.

All around her, sisters were enraptured in a blissful state of union with the Queen, but Flora remained trapped in her own consciousness. She scanned the crowd. To her surprise she noticed several other sisters who, though they stood very still, remained alert to everything around them. Their bearing was calm, with an air of detachment. Flora stared a moment, then recognized them. They were foragers.

The vibration began to subside. All around the Dance Hall bees smiled for joy, antennae high and quivering in clouds of the Queen’s Love. Longing for the reassurance of some humble labor, Flora looked for other sanitation workers—but before she could find one, a great, rowdy cheering broke out, the crowd rippled apart, and a nectar-scented forager ran in.

Finding space by Flora, she began to dance. Slow and clear she stamped out a simple phrase, over and over until the bees understood it and the rhythm caught. Then she clicked her wing-latches open, pulsed her thoracic engine, and shimmered and stopped her wings to the same rhythm. Other bees applauded and began to follow as she ran back and forth, into one section of the crowd and then another, trailing the lure of raw nectar behind her. She stopped at another forager and fed her a drop from her own mouth. The sparkle of fresh nectar lit the air and the bees cheered again, and more ran to learn the dance.

Flora ran too, thrilled by the mixed scents of nectar and cold, fresh air clinging to the forager’s wings. Her mind grew sharp with excitement as her feet picked up the choreography—and suddenly she understood the language of the dance.

Go south! sang the bee’s steps. For this long!

There were fields—she described the pattern of the crops, the heavy, waving heads of grain, the great west current of air that always blew them—more fields, the stream, count two fences—

Then east! And the forager ran again, swirling and buzzing her abdomen to urge more sisters to follow. Many bees shouted in excitement and ran to leap into the air themselves, but Flora followed close behind this wonderful bee, copying her steps.

And turn and go on . . .

“Turn and go on,” sang Flora behind her.

And then here, the flowers, the nectar, the sweetness!

“The flowers, the nectar, the sweetness!” shouted the bees, dancing their map to the treasure.

The bright-winged forager came to a halt. So joyful and precise was her dancing that Flora had thought her young, but now she saw the ragged wing-tips, thinning fur, and scrapes on her armor. It was Lily 500, who had pushed her off the landing board. With a pulse of her antennae, Flora remembered the first panel of the Queen’s Library.

“Praise end your days, Sister,” she said, in the Old Tongue.

Lily 500 looked at her intently. She straightened her wings but did not latch them.

“What do you want?” Her face was crosshatched with tiny scratches and both antennae were cracked at the base, as if they had borne great stress. “Speak,” she said, “or my flowers will close their mouths while I wait for yours to open. I must return; they wait for me. Some will not open for the touch of any other. Pride is a sin, but that is the truth.” She looked at Flora. “You suck in my scent as if I were the Queen.”

“Forgive me, Sister—I mean Madam—the wild air smells so good—”

“Today. Yesterday it was befouled, and the day before that and the one before that, which is why everyone has empty bellies. But better go hungry than eat tainted bread.” She sniffed Flora. “Where have you been, to eat so richly? Your kin are not kitchen bees.”

“I was taken to the Queen, as reward for facing the wasp.”

“Ah, yes. I heard Lady Vespa was well cooked. Yet you survived.”

“By the courage of our sisters Thistle, who perished.”

“The destiny of their kin.” Lily 500 stepped around Flora. “You will excuse me; I have lost the knack of polite conversation.”

“Wait, please!” Flora ran after her. “Madam Forager, do you have any work for me? I will serve in any way—”

“If you followed the dance, then you know where to go.” The forager walked more briskly. Shocked, Flora hurried alongside her.

“But my kin may never forage, it is written!”

“I read flowers, not scriptures. But I know our hive is in grievous need of food and that you have wings and courage and a brain. Do not annoy me by asking permission.” Lily 500 pushed her way out into the lobby.

Flora stood for a moment, unsure of her invitation. The forager glanced back at her—and she ran to follow.

LILY 500 WAS FAST and deft through the crowd. In her struggle to keep up, Flora crashed into another bee. Pollen cakes slid across the floor and a young Willow scrambled to retrieve them.

“Oh, they will punish me, I have broken so many—please, Sister, I beg you, do not tell them or they will say I am too weak to work and send me for the Kindness—”

“Tell who?” Flora quickly helped her gather them up, keeping one eye on Lily 500, who stood waiting on the far side of the lobby.

“The police! They came on a health inspection to Pollen and Patisserie, and asked who was tired—and all those who raised their hands were taken for the Kindness!” The little Willow wept again and grabbed Flora’s hand. “I have committed the sin of Waste—please, Sister, it is not much farther—will you help me?”

Across the lobby, Flora saw Lily’s bright wings disappearing down the passageway to the landing board. It was too late. She nodded.

The grateful Willow admired Flora’s propolis-striped legs as they walked together, carrying the heavy tray.

“I am sure they will appreciate it,” she said. “They like us to be adorned.”

“Who will?” But Flora needed no answer, for she could now hear the roistering male voices and smell the high scent of the Drones’ Hall.

THERE WERE TWO SUCH MASCULINE SALONS in the hive, both situated for Their Maleness’s convenience. One was on the top level near the Treasury and Fanning Hall, the other on this lowest level, near the landing board. They were places of rest, refreshment, and rowdy behavior, constantly staffed by a willing rota of young sisters and supervised by the most diplomatic of older ones.

As Flora and the Willow approached the double doors they could hear the clamor within for food and nectar, which became a roar of approval as they entered with their tray of treats. Before they could set their burden down they were surrounded by great brawny hands grabbing the cakes and pollen loaves, and all they could do was withstand the pungent rush until only crumbs were left.

“They went to a far distant Congregation today,” whispered supervising Sister Cowslip. “And one was chosen. Now all the rest gorge to restore their spirits.”

“Nectar!” shouted a drone from his banquette. “Bread! Hot and sweet like the bud of the next princess!”

“Oh, Your Malenesses, please!” Sister Cowslip fluttered four hands. “What will these simple house bees make of such language?” She turned to Flora and the Willow. “Quickly, some unguents for Their Malenesses. We must relax them, or they will eat us out of our hive.”

Flora and the Willow went into the food service area, littered with the remnants of pastries and dregs of nectar. The Willow gobbled leftovers but Flora stood very still. A tremor ran through her belly, and she bit back a gasp.

“They say the foragers grow lazy,” the Willow said thickly, “that’s why we’re always hungry.”

“Indeed they do not.” In her indignation Flora forgot her pain. “I saw many dance directions today, and if you saw the rips and tears on their bodies yet still they fly, you would not speak so.”

The Willow shrugged. “It is just what people are saying.” She went out with her bowl of massage ointment. As soon as she had gone Flora curled her body over and breathed deeply until the strange sensation passed. Then she peered out into the hall. To her dismay she saw the dandified little figure of Sir Linden standing talking to Sister Cowslip. Too late, she ducked back.