A rabble of crows cawed across the darkening sky. By primal reaction her alarm glands fired and she instinctively scented for any answering flare of support—but there were no sisters, and nothing changed but the sun, sinking at that precise moment behind a bank of cloud. The azimuth! If she had felt it shift, all was not lost. As the birds grew louder Flora blocked her fear, searching deep inside her body for that magnetic sensor that could show her the way home—but the flickering awareness had vanished.

Acrid waves of air came blowing toward her, then the raucous mob of birds came clattering and shoving down through the leaves. They snapped their blue-black beaks and swore at each other as they grabbed for better perches; they clacked and clambered about the branches stabbing at crawling insects, and their fire-rimmed eyes roved the branches for more. Flora kept very still.

More crows came down from the air and filled the branches, then with a heavy flapping they all shook themselves dry. A great black feather came spinning down past Flora, then jarred against the trunk, its bone-white point stuck in the bark. Behind it stretched a long, deep shadow, leading into the trunk itself.

Flora waited until the crows were once again swearing and arguing before daring to move. She drank fresh rain from the bark to wash away the sickly taste of the wasps’ sugar, then crawled and slid down the slippery trunk toward the feather. Her war gland automatically blasted alarm at its flesh-feeding smell, but she forced herself to go closer.

Its point was wedged in an old split in the bark. Behind it was a hole. Flora stood on the edge behind the feather and forced her throbbing antennae up. She could not sense any movement inside, nor smell anything but the living beech. She edged deeper into the cavity and scanned the space: hollow, dry, and empty. Near the entrance was a pocket in the bark almost the same size as a rest hole in the hive, but to fit it she would have to close her wing-latches. As she brought the torn panels together she could not help buzzing loudly in pain.

With a rustle of feathers, a jagged black shadow jumped down from a high branch. Flora held herself completely still as the crow clambered down to search for the interesting sound. Its red gaze zigzagged over the trunk toward her hiding place, and when it could not see her, it pecked hard at the bark to try to flush her out. When she still did not move, it made some low croaks deep in its throat, shook out its feathers, and settled down to watch.

Its smell was strong and bitter from the old sweat between its feathers and the red mites that ran across them. Only when the crow lowered its head into its chest did Flora clamp her wing-latches shut and press herself into the tight gap in the bark. The sense of enclosure was some comfort, and with the crow sleeping a few branches above her, Flora settled herself to watch the darkening sky and wait for death.

The beech leaves surged and shimmered in the wind. Far below, a vixen paused to stare up, then melted away. Stars burned tiny holes in the twilight and then a pale moon traced a slow silver arc through the sky. Its beauty made Flora’s heart burst with love for her lost egg, and only the shadow of the crow above stopped her sobs. To die without holding it again, or breathing its sweet and tender scent—and then when it hatched—

Her cheeks pulsed and her mouth moistened with royal jelly. It was sweet and she swallowed it down, for there was no more sin to commit, nor sister to rebuke her. Alone in the dark, cut off from the Queen’s Love, Flora swallowed another mouthful of the precious liquid, wasting it on herself and willing death forward.

She gazed out into the darkness, waiting. Somewhere across the scented night was her lost orchard home. She imagined it under a bright blue sky, the sweet bouquet spreading in welcome as she drew near, sun on her wings and her body loaded with nectar and pollen. She imagined her ten thousand sisters dancing for joy, Holy Mother wrapping her in Love—and somewhere, hidden deep inside all that she loved, the secret that could be no crime, for its memory filled her with bliss.

In her mind’s eye Flora saw her rough white crib under the shadow of those three tall cocoons, and in it, her precious egg, pulsing strong with the golden glow of life. She imagined its fragrance, and something inside her broke.

My child, my sisters, my Mother, my home.

Love filled her heart and Flora wept with joy, for she found she could pray again.

MORNING LIGHT LEAKED OVER the ridge. The leaves turned from cool silver to glowing green and a warm, woody fragrance rose through the bark of the trees. Flora woke at the smell. She scanned around her in shock. No sister could survive a night outside the hive—yet here she was, alive and lying in a crevice in the bark. A warm slant of light fell through the hole across her body. She was sore, but her legs were unbroken and her wing-latches had knitted back together. She straightened her antennae and winced at the pain—but data pulsed through again.

The flight, the storm, the wasps—

Flora crawled to the edge of the hole into the sunshine. The crows had gone, and this great sheltering beech was one of many, high on a hill and overlooking the fields and the distant town. Bright specks of insects wove across the air, and on the moist earth below two blackbirds stretched a worm to a wet brown thread.

Flora groomed herself and made a detailed inventory of her injuries. Under the bruising and windburn, her antennae slowly restored their function. There . . . was the place of the murmuring tree . . . and the wasps’ warehouse.

And there—Flora shouted for joy—there was the faintest scent of the hive. To reach it, she would pass through that scent of foreign flowers she had tried to find before. The sweet thread came stronger as some petals opened in the still dawn air.

Flora touched her antennae in gratitude to the beech that had sheltered her. She would not go home empty; she would complete her mission and redeem herself. She would find forage for her sisters, she would dance, and then she would go to her egg.

THE LITTLE GARDENS were already crowded when she arrived. Bees from hives unknown moved purposefully from bloom to bloom, along with ants tending their aphid flocks on the roses and flies that stank of putrefaction. Honeybee sisters, no matter from what hive, united in barging every fly out of their way, whether they wanted a flower or not. For their part, the flies took pleasure in advancing so close to a sister that she was forced to either touch the unclean creature or leave her flower to its filthy embrace.

Flora watched from above, trying to decide which bloom to visit first. Some were dewy and plump from the rain, thrusting their faces at any who wished to touch them, while others dipped shy heads and could only be approached with skill from below. Flora chose a newly opened dog rose with pure, sheeny petals and thick golden clusters of pollen. She drank the nectar for the instant energy transfusion, then worked her way over the rambling bush until her panniers were almost packed full. Then she went to investigate other gardens.

Many were neat paved deserts dotted with garish tubs of flowers neither scented nor nourishing, but in one small overgrown plot, a buzzing crowd of insects could not restrain their excitement at the thrilling foreign smell.

Towering spiked echium plants, tall as sapling trees, made an ultraviolet forest of treasure. Silver hairs along their slender green trunks and tapering branches illuminated their silhouettes and the multitudes of insects whirring for joy at the bounteous harvest. Each of the countless purple florets showed an ultraviolet line pointing to the nectar, and bees, hoverflies, hornets, flies of every kind, white butterflies, meadow browns, red admirals, and fritillaries greeted each other and gorged together. The big furry bottoms of Bombini bees bounced white, yellow, and red as they rummaged, and Flora waited for a gap between them before diving into the sweet abundance. She filled her crop and panniers to maximum capacity and then set off for home.