“Bring it forward.” Sister Cyclamen spoke quietly. Flora reached down and stroked the liquid up in her hands. It became translucent and malleable as she touched it, and like the other sisters in the circle, she molded it into a thin disc and laid it in the center, building a light and fragile pile.

“How long may I do this?” Flora laid another disc down. She wanted to go now.

“As long as your spirit and body may unite in prayer.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Flora knelt and laid her antennae at Sister Cyclamen’s feet. The beauty and trust of this old sister made her want to confess the treacherous crime she was about to commit for the second time—but instead, part of her brain was storing up the exact vibration of the Holy Chord, and the timing, and the sacred knowledge, to use to build a crib.

DEVOTION WAS IN PROGRESS when Flora emerged, but she did not want it. While the Prayer of Wax was still fresh in her body and she knew she could draw more out, she wanted to find seclusion. This second egg made Flora’s senses as keen as if she were foraging, and she could locate Holy Mother herself, far down on the opposite side of the hive. She was resting. Her scent was calm and steady, but as Flora breathed it in, one thought burned in her mind: Only the Queen may breed—

And only the most foul and polluting daughter who deserved to be torn head from thorax from abdomen and given to the wasps would ever contemplate this evil act of pride. Every sister she walked past, spoke to, fed or flew with, she betrayed by her selfish crime. What if she carried a maggot, a ball of sin and sickness, a heretic’s abomination?

A screaming bleeding child, pushed into her arms and clinging to her in terror. A baby, devoured alive by the fertility police.

Outside the Chapel of Wax Flora pulled some of the purifying veil of scent from around the doors and wrapped it around herself. She resealed her antennae but she could not draw in her abdomen, for her egg grew larger all the time. She loved the feeling of the life inside her, and she did not care if it was a crime; she wanted this child—and must find a place to hide.

A place of seclusion . . . quiet, with three doors—

Sister Sage had taken her to one such place, immediately after her emergence. Flora thought of that small room where she had first met Sister Teasel. It was behind the Nursery, on this floor. To reach it, she would have to cross the lobby now, while Devotion was still in progress. If she waited, she would give birth in public.

While the Holy Chord continued and everyone was preoccupied in prayer and unity was the best time to move—but as soon as the Queen’s Love began to shimmer down from a psychic trance to a fragrance, the sisters would wake and some vigilant bee would find her out.

Flora edged into the transcendent crowd. The signal of Devotion in the comb made it hard to locate the exact route she sought, and the egg pulsed at her harder, demanding she lie down. There was no time to lose. Flora moved to where the scent of different kin was strong and varied, then she opened up her antennae and searched for the exact location.

Following Sister Sage . . . The big central mosaic . . . and then—

The Queen’s Love—

Sister Sage had given her the Queen’s Love. If she took some now, in Devotion—she would find the way.

Flora opened her spiracles, pressed her feet into the comb, and drew in as much of the divine fragrance as she possibly could.

Dull gold tiles, then blank white tiles, not cleaned, just blank—

There it was—underfoot the same pattern led away through the lobby.

“Where do you go, before the service is ended?” Sister Sage stood before Flora, tremors of Devotion still flying up her rigid antennae.

Frantic to hide her thoughts, Flora pulsed out a great chunk of Lily 500’s data.

The azimuth of the sun never lies, unlike the wasps and every creature of the Myriad but the spiders.

Sister Sage recoiled. “You mention such things at Devotion?”

“Forgive me, Sister. It is the long confinement.” Despite the pain it caused her, Flora pulsed another great surge of Lily’s data at Sister Sage.

When confronted with soiled blooms and evidence of bluebottles—

“Enough! Incontinent, impatient foragers—while the rains last, you will consider your sisters!” Disgusted at the rude interruption to her prayers, Sister Sage pushed her way through the shuddering crowd.

Flora picked up the trail of the golden tiles again. At the service corridor behind Pollen and Patisserie and the Category Two ward they became blank, but she recognized them from her time in Sanitation, because it was here nannies and nurses left their waste for collection. Here was the gutter she had swept and sluiced so many times, and there, at the end of the corridor, a blank wall. If there was no door, she would go into labor in front of thousands of sisters and die with her egg.

The Holy Chord faded, the vibration of sixty thousand feet resumed, and Flora ran down to the end of the passageway to check, her belly swelling with every step.

Invisible until she stood directly before it was a small, carved doorway and a tiny panel marked with a crown. Flora touched it and the door swung open. To her relief, she stood in the small, empty room she recognized, with the three doors.

She closed the door she had entered from. Another one led to the Nursery, and the third . . . was where the worn tiles ended. Flora went to listen at it. All was silent behind, and she opened it. She found herself on the landing of a staircase, tall and steep. From beneath rose the scent of the fresh air of the landing board, and from above, the scent of honey. Immediately, Flora knew where she was. This was the staircase she had used when she fled from Sir Linden, when the greedy drones had invaded the Fanning Hall. The air was still, as if it had been undisturbed for some time. She began to climb.

THE STAIRCASE ENDED at a small landing with one door. Beyond it, Flora could sense the corridor and the vibrations of sisters’ feet. She gasped at the pounding of her belly—the egg was coming. Warm wax began seeping from between her bands and flowed over her hands as she struggled to hold it back—to waste such a precious substance, to strive so hard to protect her egg, to think she could hide it—Flora beat her head against the wall in grief at her failure.

Very slowly, a section of wall swung around and Flora stood facing a dark open space. The egg began pushing its way out of Flora’s body and she managed to get inside and push the wall closed behind her. She sank down onto the ground and breathed the old still air in the chamber. Despite the pain, two scents instantly registered.

The first was the strong smell of honey, carried on vibrations from one of the walls. Flora opened her antennae to read them—and knew they were the movements of sisters, working in the Treasury beyond. The second scent was much fainter, old and dry and undisturbed by any living vibration.

Her egg trembled inside her and halted its passage. Feeling its fear, Flora turned to face whatever threat was there. Her distended abdomen left no space to slide her dagger, but she raised her claws and circled against the strange force in the chamber. The scent clarified into an infinitesimally small signal in the air. It was not trying to repel her—it was calling her.

Clenching her egg tight in her body, Flora followed it to its source. She stopped in shock. There, against the wall, was a sight so extraordinary that for a few seconds she felt no pain. Three tall cocoons stood anchored on a thick wax plinth, each one a long and faceted oval, intricately decorated. All bore small round holes in the lower section, but one also had a jagged rip across the top.

Flora drew in their scent, and screamed as the egg pulsed hard in response. Each cocoon was a coffin, and each held a long-dead Sage.