“Young, old. Old. Old. Old.” She stopped at Flora. “But you are very young.” She raked a claw through Flora’s fur. “Barely risen.”

Flora looked down at herself and saw it was true—her fur was thick and lustrous as if she were still just a young nurse. The priestess drew a slow claw under Flora’s abdomen and brought it out. A curled filament of wax hung from it. She smelled it. Flora waited for the blow, for though she had gained access to the chapel as a forager, none of her kin was permitted to work with this sacred substance.

“You still make wax—of course we cannot spare you. A noble gesture, but stand aside.” The priestess passed on, inspecting the volunteer bees.

Flora could not believe it—surely the priestess had smelled her guilt. Then she felt her antennae sealed tight again. She had done it unconsciously, and she knew why. Deep in her mind, her tiny egg shone pure and bright. It did not want to die, it did not want its mother to die—and they were still connected. Joy rushed through Flora’s body and she looked down at herself. It was true, she did look young again. Her fur rose thick and lustrous, her cuticle gleamed, her joints were supple. Very quietly she opened her wing-latches and sent her consciousness running down the four membranes. Each one was strong and supple and whole, with no trace of damage. The deep tear she knew had been there had healed.

Holy Mother’s youth restored with every egg. And she, a flora from Sanitation, was stealing the gift of life and youth and power from Holy Mother herself, bringing destruction and death on her hive.

“Do not spare me!” Flora shouted. “Let me die, destroy my sins!”

“Religious mania, 717.” In the group of the old selected volunteers, Sister Teasel stood watching her. “But I know you spoke first, and it was brave.” She plucked at her bald thorax as if the fur still grew. “It should have been me; it is up to the higher kin to set the standard.” She twisted her hands. “But I shall do it in death. Now hush, and let us pray in peace.”

The Sage priestesses bowed and addressed the ragged old group.

“Daughters of our Holy Mother, servants of our hive: do you willingly give your bodies and souls in the Rite of Expiation?”

The old bees nodded and held each other.

“We do,” some managed to say.

“Thank you, noble sisters. Then Accept, Obey, and Serve.”

“Accept, Obey, and Serve,” the old bees whispered.

The Sage priestesses brought the younger bees who had volunteered themselves to surround the older group.

“You shall lead the rite,” one of the Sage priestesses said to them, and then the Holy Chord rose up again. From the back of the Dance Hall the dark-slicked bees from the fertility police began driving the others forward. Then the chant began.

Blessed be the sister

Who takes away my sin.

Blessed be the sister—

The kin of Sage began it, but each kin group took it up in a round until the whole chamber resonated with the words and the words blurred into a low surging sound as the crowd pushed forward.

Flora felt the weight of a thousand sisters against her back. All around them were gasps and cries as old sisters went down under the force of the crowd and the chant grew louder.

Blessed be the sister— Her antennae roared with the overlapping words as her feet were forced forward. Fertility is Life itself. The thought made her stumble but she dug her hooks into the wax and felt the strength powering down her six legs. I am fertile. Blood rushed into her wing-veins and she longed to spread them on the air. She must get back within three days to watch her egg hatch—

Her body slammed hard against one of the old bees—and she looked straight into the terrified face of Sister Teasel.

Blessed be the sister—

Who takes away my sin—

“Holy Mother forgive my fear!” Sister Teasel clung to Flora and pressed her antennae tight against hers. Flora cried out in shock but it was too late. The scent and the feel and the love she felt for her beautiful egg rushed into Sister Teasel’s mind. The old sister recoiled.

“You! You are the laying worker!” Sister Teasel struggled for footing in the hardening crush. “Here!” she screamed out. “Here is the heretic—”

Flora kicked her legs out from under her but Sister Teasel only staggered. She clawed at Flora’s face and pumped her alarm glands wildly.

“She sins again! Kill her egg!”

The waves of the chant rolled louder above them as Flora pushed Sister Teasel down onto the throbbing comb and broke her neck.

Blessed be the sister

Who takes away our sins . . .

Flora stood up, her kin-scent pumping hard. All around the Dance Hall the sisters pushed forward, moving the dead into a pile of frail old bodies in the center. Sister Teasel’s body disappeared under others.

Blessed be the sisters—sang the beautiful chorus of the Sage.

Who take away our sin.

Our Mother, who art in labor . . .

“Hallowed be Thy womb,” joined in all the other bees. As they spoke the ancient words of the Queen’s Prayer together, the vibration in the comb changed, and the fragrance of Devotion began to flow.

Many bees wept at the sight of the old dead sisters, and kin comforted kin, but all kept breathing deeply of the Queen’s Love, calming themselves with its purity and strength. Flora spoke the words and closed her antennae tight. They were bruised from Sister Teasel’s attack, but she was alive, and so was her secret.

“Amen,” she said, with all her sisters.

They stood in silence, the pressure eased. The only sound was a blackbird’s song, far out in the orchard. The hail had stopped.

The Sage priestesses raised their arms in triumph and the bees cheered and wept in joy, their terror forgotten. With a fine fierce sound the foragers unlatched their wings and the house bees cheered them on as they ran for the landing board, bright and steaming as the clouds released the sun.

Twenty-One

SHOCKED AT HER OWN ACT, FLORA WAS AMONG THE FIRST out. A rising front from the south wiped the last shred of gray from the sky and below her spread the great plain of different greens, pushed together in crude four-sided shapes as if by some primitive insect ignorant of the beauty of the hexagon. In the distance where once had shone the field of golden rapeseed, two great machines toiled away at the soil. Flora flexed a wing-tip and veered away from the smell.

She had offered herself up, but she had not been taken. She was fertile, yet still alive. For whatever reason, it had not been Holy Mother’s will that she die—otherwise her confession would have been heard. Instead, a Sage priestess had passed her to the side of the living, and Sister Teasel to the dying.

Flora tucked her antennae sleek down her back as she increased her speed. Never again would she leave her channels open in the hive for any bee to grab and read. Sister Teasel was old and could no longer work efficiently—but Flora’s wings beat with a new strength. She felt she could fly a hundred leagues to serve her hive, and the sky streamed with all the scents rising from the wet earth—including mesmerizingly delicious nectar. Flora locked onto it.

Fresh nectar, after days of stale, damp food in the hive—how her sisters would cheer and what a balm to her conscience, to see them feasting on her forage. Flora was ravenous, and she increased her wingbeats. With luck she might even be first to stand on the velvet lip of a petal as the day’s nectar rose.

She sped along the stinking dark line of the road, toward the red- and gray-roofed town and the tiny green gardens that pried the houses apart. The asphalt veins multiplied and the dank monoxide wind billowed higher, but Flora rose above it, glorying in her extraordinary new power. Perhaps Holy Mother had spared her for this very purpose: to bring the finest forage for the hive, and fill its Treasury with wealth. By her efforts foraging and the value she brought to the hive, she would offset the crimes of her body.