“Forgive us, Madam Forager, we have our orders. It must be a full crop, and before the noon azimuth, or we must deny you entry. The Sage will it.”

Flora breathed in the deep, warm smell of the hive.

“But I still have good nectar, even from your own kin-flower: smell! The kitchen will surely want it—”

The guards’ faces showed the pain of their order, even as they blocked Flora’s way.

“Forgive us, Sister.”

“But this is my home, you are my family—where else can I go? Give me the Kindness, for I cannot leave here while I can still serve—”

“Without a full crop, the Sage forbid you entry.”

“She has it.” The forager Madam Dogwood’s voice was hoarse and her sides still heaved from her hard flight. She went up to Flora. “Show them,” she said to her. “They will see.”

As soon as Flora opened her mouth to answer, Madam Dogwood bent hers to it, triggered her own crop, and transferred every drop of nectar she could. Before Flora could respond, other foragers quickly did the same, sharing their own loads until her crop was full. The sun shifted.

“There,” said Madam Dogwood to the Thistle guards. “The azimuth only now rises noon, and she brings a full crop to the board. You will admit her.”

“Admit her!” shouted the foragers.

“Gladly.” The guards bowed.

Flora knelt low in gratitude to her forager sisters.

“Praise end your days, sisters.”

“Such sentiment!” The voice was oily and malignant and it came from a spider, hanging soft and wicked in the nearest web and listening to all that passed. “Do not waste your old and useless, trade them here!”

The Thistle straightened their abdomens in threat. “Do not insult us, foul thing. Every sister is useful.”

“Not she who first gave her nectar. She . . . is old.”

The spider trained her four hard little eyes on Madam Dogwood, who flared her venom gland in defiance. Flora stood by her comrade’s side, anger rising.

“Yes, that one is weak,” the spider said to its neighbors. “Soon they will fight among themselves.” As the webs shimmered again, the bees saw that some held long white lumps.

“Never!” The Thistle guards held up their arms to the spiders. “You lie!”

“Oh come, come,” said the spider, “you know we must tell the truth. That is why your Sage trade with us.”

Flora’s anger lifted her off her feet and her chest roared. “They would not! You are the Myriad and you are evil!”

“The Sage do not mind.” The spider smirked. “They pay for knowledge.”

Flora forced herself back down to the board.

“Is it true?” she asked the guards. “Do the Sage trade with them?”

The Thistle guards looked down and did not answer.

“How? Spiders do not eat honey or pollen—” Then Flora looked again at the white shapes hanging in the webs. They were shrouds, wrapped tight around the bodies of sisters.

“That’s right!” called out the spider. “Spend your old, your weak, your clumsy, and your stupid; buy knowledge of winter to keep your hive alive!” It pointed a claw at Madam Dogwood. “That one’s time is nearly up, I can smell it. Send her!”

“How would it happen?” Madam Dogwood stared out.

“No!” Flora held her back.

The spider inhaled deeply and her soft, moist body pulsed with excitement.

“A quick bite.” Her whisper crawled through the air and Madam Dogwood took a step forward. “A moment of pain—”

“Silence, foul thing.” One of the Thistle buzzed a blast of her war gland at the web. “Attend your own business and gorge on flies.”

“My name is Arachnae. And you bees . . . are my business.”

Another spider stepped across her own web with rippling feet. “It is just a plea for simple economics, which you of all creatures must admire. You are many, with much treasure. All we have are answers, to questions you dare not ask. . . . But when someone has a question . . . we want to help.”

“Turn around! Do not look at them!”

Every bee on the landing board wanted to heed the Thistle’s words and turn her wings on the spiders, but the webs were of hypnotic craft and beauty.

“Look closer, sisters,” whispered the first spider. “Read your poor hive’s destiny . . .”

“We are not your sisters!” Flora forced herself to look away. “And our hive is strong, we need no tricks from you!”

“Knowledge is power,” said the spider, plucking a silvery chord from her web. Every other spider did the same so that the orchard chimed in dissonance.

“The length of the season, the number of suns before the honeyflow comes again, who will be the next to die . . .” The spider dropped on her thread so that she hung in the air. “With winter coming, your hive could budget to the last sip of honey, the last grain of pollen. With knowledge, you could save yourselves. . . . One bee, one answer. One bee . . . one answer.” She began to revolve, her white belly shining and disappearing, shining and disappearing.

“One bee . . . one answer . . .” Other spiders dropped down from their webs, slowly twirling pendants beneath the leaves. Brown and white. Brown and white.

“Look away!” Flora pushed back the foragers who had walked to the edge of the board. Then she saw Madam Dogwood at the far end, unlatching her wings.

“Praise end your days,” she cried to Flora. Before anyone could stop her she leaped from the board and flew toward the trees. A silver web bounced as she hit it and her whirring wings slowed and stuck. The bees cried out in horror as the spider ran to greet their sister, her fangs bared.

“Here.” The spider climbed on Madam Dogwood’s back. “Something to calm you.” She bit the forager between her head and thorax and held her until she stopped moving. Then she rolled her in sticky netting, stopped the last of her cries with a clot of silk in her mouth, and ran back to the center of her web.

“So. Now I owe you an answer.” Malice twinkled in the spider’s four eyes. “What about . . . how to defend your hive? ‘Oh the Visitation, help us Holy Mother, all our honey is being stolen—’ ” Her laugh made liquid move in her body so that her loose brown skin bulged. “Tame things forget how to fight. Arachnae can remind you.” The spider smiled. “And what of starvation?” She ran back to Madam Dogwood and crouched above her. “Your Treasury is not as full as it could be, is it? Who knows if it can last the winter?” She bared her fangs above Madam Dogwood. “Blood and nectar—my favorite.”

With a great thoracic roar of rage, Flora aimed herself for the center of the web and stopped just short in the air, whirring to try to drive the spider back.

“Tell us then. How can we survive the winter?”

“Just a moment.” The spider’s face took on a look of absent concentration, then she reached behind herself and pulled forward a fresh skein of silk. She showed it to Flora, then licked it. “My new ropes taste of nectar and pollen. Now, come a little closer, my dear; I haven’t seen one like you before. Not pretty, so you must be nutritious. That’s always a good rule.” The spider winked two of her four eyes at Flora. “You have a secret as well as a question, I can smell it. We’ll chat after I’ve had a bite to eat. Drink, I should say. Before she dries out.”

“Answer me!” Flora drew her sting, but the spider just smiled.

“But which question? The one about your hive? Or that secret desire deep inside you?” The spider sank her fangs into Madam Dogwood’s abdomen and sucked noisily, then looked up. “Surely it is a relief that I know . . .”

As the spider drank again, Flora felt her wings tiring and heard the distant cries of her sisters on the landing board, calling her back. The spider paused in her drinking.

“I will whisper, so they do not hear: You will have one more egg.”

Flora reeled back in the air. “I did not ask that!”

“Call it a gift.” The spider looked at Flora slyly. “But why not stay with me now, and sacrifice yourself for your hive? I will credit your sisters three lives, because I really think you will taste quite special.” She indicated Madam Dogwood’s body. “It would not be like this; we could talk for a long time. Think about it.”