By the second morning the foragers were irritable as they turned back from the drenched landing board; the sanitation workers smelled even stronger as they carried the night’s dead to the morgue; and in the cold damp canteens the food had lost much savor. Devotions came and went, crowded, humid, and silent as each sister concentrated on restoring her own spiritual harmony.

By the third day, the streaming bars of rain locked the hive into cabin fever. Bales of waste accumulated in the freight depot, and some frustrated foragers refused to accept the law and flew out to their deaths. The Thistle reinforced their presence in the approach corridor to stop further waste of worker resources.

“Selfish,” other bees said when they heard. “More work for the rest.”

After the fanning and the cleaning there was nothing to do but talk, and gossip bred like mold in the damp confinement. Nothing was off-limits as the sisters struggled to find occupation for their constant restless energy; every kin was discussed by every other, the décor of the hive and its state of repair, the food, the standard of hygiene—even the Queen’s laying.

This last topic, which could have been the death warrant of any who spoke of it disparagingly, was always discussed in fulsome terms. Every bee knew a Nursery worker or had recently been one herself, and every bee had her own most personal relationship with Holy Mother. They compared their feelings during and after Devotion, and there was more than a little competition over who felt her Love most strongly, for ecstasy was piety. The conversations always concluded with the acknowledgment that Her Majesty continued to lay at magnificent speed and volume and was more beautiful than ever, and as she was the mightiest force in the universe, this rain must be a sign of her displeasure, and so they must all work harder. Accept, Obey, and Serve.

Flora said the words too, half devout and half ashamed. Her body surged with unused energy and, despite the deepening tear in one wing membrane, she longed to fly to escape the terrible tension of confinement, not only with her sisters but with her own thoughts. Keeping her antennae shut at all times was a terrible strain, for it meant she could hardly rest at night lest she dream in scent of her egg. It was pointless to lie there in guilt, unable to sleep and occupying a premium rest chamber some more worthy sister might take, so like many other forager sisters who could not sleep because of their confinement, she got up and wandered the corridors.

On her way to the landing board to check conditions, Flora paused to peer into the Drones’ Hall. It was a squalid sight. The long days of inactivity had made many drones corpulent, the floor was filthy, and the sisters tending them did so with a disconsolate air, more interested in the falling crumbs than on praising Their Malenesses. The curling, pungent pheromones of the males cut through the stifling smell of ten thousand damp sisters and Flora went in to breathe more. To her surprise many other sisters were also there and she saw from their faces that they too breathed the drones’ scent as some relief from the unventilated female fug of the dormitories.

A strange atmosphere hung in the large chamber. In their boredom and hunger some sisters took liberties with the drones’ food and drink, and in return the drones took liberties with the sisters’ bodies, touching them idly while speaking to each other of princesses they would seize when the rain ceased.

Flora withdrew, a strange feeling stirring in her body. Without realizing it, her antennae channels had spread wide open and she drew great, deep breaths through all her spiracles. When she tried to draw them shut she found they were stuck, and a spasm shot through her whole body. Her belly swelled warm and tight and a tiny vibration flickered deep within her abdomen.

Flora hurried away from the Drones’ Hall renewed in terror and in joy that her crime would come again. In the empty lobby outside the Dance Hall she paused to scent the air from the landing board. The orchard was sweet and cool in the rising dawn, and the rain had almost stopped. The comb began to thrum as the hive awoke and the multitude of sisters began moving. Once desperate to be out on the wing, Flora no longer wanted to forage, only to be still and breathe sweet wax.

The egg in her belly glowed brighter inside her like a tiny sun. As the first foragers came down the main staircase Flora ran up a smaller one, to the midlevel. Soon she would lay, and in secret. In order to survive, her egg must have a pure wax crib—but she could not risk going to the Nursery.

Flora hesitated in the midlevel lobby, pretending to pore over the mosaic codes with the other sisters checking which area first required their services. She could smell the Nursery cribs from where she stood, only ever made of the purest new wax that came from the hallowed and restricted chapel. To prevent the risk of accidental contamination, the entrance was always veiled from full public scent and impossible to find with the naked eye.

Checking to make sure that there were no Sage priestesses or police in the vicinity, Flora unlocked her antennae to locate the Chapel of Wax. Immediately, her love for her egg rushed upon her and she felt her kin-scent rising warm and strong. Someone must smell her, would seize her—but all she felt were the pulsing prayer tiles beneath her feet, for she was already on the path. A purifying scent shimmered across the plain wax doors ahead, and parted at her approach. The doors swung open.

Nineteen

WE ARE HONORED, MADAM FORAGER.” AN AGED SISTER from Cyclamen held out her hands in greeting. Not since Lily 500 had Flora seen such a wise, beautiful sister. “What gift can we give you?”

“I—I come to learn the skill of wax.”

When Sister Cyclamen smiled Flora saw that she was completely blind.

“Not a skill, but a prayer of the body,” she said. “Come.” The doors closed behind them and Flora felt a great sense of peace and safety. The whole chapel was made of new wax, pure white and sweetly scented.

“It is like being inside a crib.” Flora breathed in the wonderful perfume.

“All are children while they pray. What was the flower of your emergence, my child? You smell young, yet I feel your risen fur.”

“I have no flower. I—I am a flora.”

“Do not be ashamed,” said Sister Cyclamen. “When you pray, the wax will come or it will not. Only you will know, and you may leave at any time.” She took Flora’s hands and joined her into a circle of young bees standing a wing apart.

“It may take some time. Breathe, and be still.”

Flora stood between two young sisters, their fur barely risen. She clenched her belly to keep the egg from traveling down. Gradually, she became aware of the very soft humming around her. It came from the wax itself, made by the bodies of the bees, themselves made by Holy Mother.

Flora’s egg quickened and she clamped her antennae shut.

“Now touch your antennae to the floor, so that you may truly feel it.” Sister Cyclamen’s voice was beside her, and her kind hands guided Flora’s head down so that the tips of her antennae rested on the comb. Immediately, the image of a beautiful drone baby glowed in her mind.

“This place is holy. I should not be here.”

“You are a child of Our Mother. She makes nothing that is not holy.”

Sister Cyclamen repositioned her, and the two young bees on either side of her moved close enough so their wings just touched. The hum began again. Flora’s body filled with a soothing glow, her head sank in relief, and as she drew in the scent of pure, new wax, all her clenched muscles relaxed. Her abdominal bands parted, and from them slowly seeped warm, liquid wax.