“You there!” Sister Cowslip called her. “Who do you attend? His glorious Maleness here requires grooming.” Praying her striped legs and pomaded fur concealed the truth, Flora took a bowl and went out.

Sister Cowslip sniffed her immediately. “You have a most peculiar odor, almost like a cleaner—”

“Sir Linden!” Flora dropped a narrow curtsy. “Forgive my past mistakes; I beg to now attend you!”

Drones nearby burst out laughing.

“Ugly but keen, Linden. Better than nothing.”

He sniffed at Flora. “Oh, it’s you! The disobedient one!”

Sister Cowslip looked from one to the other. “I’m sorry to hear that—I am sure we can find one better, Your Maleness—”

“No, no, this exact one will do. Begone.” He waved Sister Cowslip away, then spread his legs and puffed his chest at Flora. “My masculinity no longer scares you?”

“I must bear it, Sir.” Flora kept her antennae downcast.

“Indeed! Well then, up with you and do my bidding—or it’s the Kindness!” Sir Linden beckoned for her to follow, strutted through the other drones, and then threw himself down on a banquette. “I am ready. Begin.”

Flora looked at the other sisters and their drones. Reluctantly, she began anointing Sir Linden’s legs. The hooks on the third pair were so small as to almost be like a sister’s.

“You may say pleasant things to me.” Sir Linden shifted more comfortably.

Unable to think of anything, Flora began humming a melody the ladies had sung in the Queen’s Chambers.

Sir Linden looked up. “That is a bawdy tune; you should not even know it. Continue, but no words or Sister Cowpat will evict you. Then I shall have no one, not even a fright like you.” He stared morosely around the chamber. “Quercus was chosen today. I suppose you heard.”

“Glory to our hive.”

“Oh, spare me—he was just a great flying wad of sperm. The thought of that boorish idiot in a golden palace, drowning in honey and mounting his royal beauty at will—” Sir Linden shuddered in irritation. “And as for that fat oaf”—he gestured at Sir Poplar—“it’s a miracle he’s still alive, for he is so loud every bird in the sky must hear him taking off, and so slow a flower might bloom and die before he rises.”

“Then it is a race?”

“A race and a chase.”

At his words a nearby drone leaned forward.

“Until every princess is mated,” he cried.

“And every brother king of his own palace!” called another.

Many drones stamped and cheered, and Sister Cowslip glowed in delight and sent her girls scurrying around to replenish empty goblets and plates.

“You see?” Sir Linden threw himself down again. “That’s the essence of it. Congregation is all about shouting, shoving, and bragging—then barging ahead.”

“Is it . . . a ceremony?”

“Stupid girl—a place. A subtle place in the highest reaches of the air, at a sweet convergence of the winds. A place where all the noble males of different hives come to gather, and princesses visit to make their choice.” He pulled his ruff straight. “Of course, the more fellows, the better the atmosphere—but the more competition.”

“There is not a princess for each?”

Sir Linden laughed and turned again to the drone hall. “Brothers!” he called out. “My loyal retainer knows nothing of our great work—shall we speak to them of love?”

“Yes! Love!” cried out all the sisters in the Drones’ Hall, even Sister Cowslip. “Tell us of love, please!” They clustered around their drones, and all faces turned to Sir Linden. He cleared his throat, puffed his ruff, and began.

“Hear you that our noble brother Quercus is taken up to glory, by a princess fairer than any sister of hive or heaven, with limbs of gold and fur of brightest light. Recall how she roared upon us at Congregation, faster than a swooping jay, and swept us with her ray of lust, so that the leaves themselves shone gold!”

At this all the drones roared and cheered and some grabbed their crotches, shouting crude praise for the erotic perfection of this foreign princess. The sisters nudged and whispered to each other, envious and enraptured.

“Congregation, you simple sisters of the hive,” Sir Linden continued for the general benefit, and for the pleasure of being the center of attention for once, “means the place of air, near trees of such particular majesty they are gods in their own right, and only drones may dare ascend their heights, defying the birds to breathe our lust on all the winds.” He looked around to gather all attention. “It is the place where princesses come to find the sacrament of love, delivered by Our Malenesses.” At this all the sisters applauded and cheered, and their excitement drew forth more scent from the drones.

“Fine talk, Linden,” called one.

“Now my sword longs for action!” shouted another.

Urging each other on, the drones began revving their thoraxes. Streaming pheromones, they jumped up one by one, and there before the eyes of every sister, they grew strong and noble, their faces rugged and handsome. Even Sir Linden no longer looked petulant and slightly feminine, but elegant and finely formed, his face intelligent with mischief.

The drones stamped and shook their armor straight and Sir Linden motioned Flora to stand behind him. No longer spoiled and indolent but gleaming with grooming and bursting with testosterone, the drones formed their martial phalanx. Their scent rose and the sound of their armor reverberated as they began to stamp in unison.

“Congregation, Copulation, Coronation!” they chanted again and again, and the sisters cheered them on. Flora stood too, but Sir Linden pushed her back down.

“Oh, no—you will not leave this hall until they bring word of my triumph with a discerning princess. Believe me, hairy girl, it shall take place.” He looked at her. “Until then, you will stay here, by my explicit instruction.”

Furious at herself for choosing to help the Willow above following Lily 500, Flora forced herself to nod.

“Excellent.” Sir Linden banged his armor plates together like his brothers and marched out with the phalanx, plume held high.

FLORA LONGED FOR Sir Linden’s success, for it would free her from servitude in the Drones’ Hall, but by the afternoon every single one of the males was back, cursing and swearing that the rains had returned. Flora silently cursed as well, for confinement with the high hormonal smell of the drones made both her head and belly ache.

Sanitation workers had more freedom than drone maids—and Sister Cowslip would be only too glad to evict her when she knew the truth of her base kin. Flora waited until Sir Linden lay sated and snoring, and then went to confess her trespass.

Sister Cowslip did not react, even when Flora repeated herself, but stood motionless at her reception station near the doors. Flora sniffed her. She was a bee of late spring, and her time had come.

Flora let her natural kin-scent rise up from her body, then pulled in her antennae like the humblest of her kin. Making sure Sister Cowslip’s wing-latches were secure, she lifted her in her mouth and slipped out into the corridor.

Swirls of warm, fresh air came in from the landing board, and by the chains of sisters passing aromatic bales of pollen back into the hive, Flora knew the rain had stopped. She edged forward in the slow lane, her heart thrumming with excitement as she heard the sound of forager engines taking off and landing, so close outside. She felt her wings long and strong down her back, and the elastic tension of their membranes. Lily 500 had said there was hunger, and that Flora was strong and able. If the hive was hungry and she found food, how could that be wrong?

“Sanitation to exit.”

At the gruff call of the Thistle guards, Flora and a few others of her kin stepped out onto the board.

Sister after sister hummed her engines and fired herself into the dazzling blue sky. Flora unlatched her wings, adrenaline pumping through her body. She started her engine.