Flora hung in the air as she had seen the wasps do. “I asked about my hive. You gave me an answer I did not want—”

“You did want it!” hissed the spider. “You long to sin again!”

“You have your payment, Arachnae, and you owe my hive. Now answer my question: How can we survive winter?”

“You try to trick a spider?” She spat Madam Dogwood’s blood at Flora. “Winter comes twice. That is all I will tell you, and may your hive suffer!”

THOUGH IT WAS A SHORT DISTANCE, the malice of the spiders reached up for Flora as she passed above their webs, blurring her sight and willing her down to their clutches. She collapsed on the landing board, and foragers touched her gently in support.

“What did Arachnae say?” Sister Sage stood on the board, the sun in her wings. “Your private parley was so long, we thought that you would stay.”

“I will tell you, Sister—but let me first deliver my crop. I have fulfilled the task you set.” Flora beckoned to a young Daisy receiver and gave her the golden load.

Sister Sage observed without praise. She looked out into the orchard.

“Kindly repeat the spider’s words.”

Flora sealed her antennae before she answered. “Winter comes twice.”

“Strange.” Sister Sage’s antennae gave rapid pulses. “Anything else?”

“They wish our hive to suffer.”

“Do they indeed . . . the loathsome traders.”

Sister Sage drew herself up to her full majestic height, extended her antennae, and pointed them into the orchard. In the trees the webs flashed taut in response, and though there was no wind, the leaves shivered. The priestess turned back to Flora.

“I hear Madam Dogwood gave her life for yours. Endeavor to deserve it.”

“I will, Sister.”

Flora ran inside, her heart tight with guilt and joy.

Twenty-Seven

THE SUMMER WAS ENDING, BUT NO EGG CAME. DAY BY day Flora scanned her body for a signal of another egg, but nothing changed except the shortening days and the growing hunger of the bees. Rather than return home empty, many dispirited foragers chose to give their tired bodies to the spiders in the hope the hive would profit. Then a priestess would fly out to the shroud and speak with the spider for a long time.

The first time she witnessed this strange conversation, Flora watched in dread from the landing board. When the priestess looked back at the hive and nodded, Flora’s antennae searched for the approach of the police, convinced the spider had revealed her secret. But the priestess landed back on the board with a somber face and almost ran to get back into the hive. The Thistle guards and all the bees on the board looked at each other at this discomposure—but none dared speak of it.

The orchard shrouds became a terrible, and then a normal, fact of life. The diminishing band of foragers grew used to avoiding the webs but each night many died of exhaustion, and each day fewer returned than set out on their missions, for the smallest miscalculation of route could be fatal if their fuel was low.

Flora kept going, managing to gather what little there was. She discovered golden ragwort growing on the mounds of rubble behind the industrial complex, and though the bread its pollen made was coarse and tough, it provided a day’s food for the hive. Wasps also frequented this area, leaving smeary scent-trails in the air. Refusing to let her fear prevent her forage, Flora took to revving her engine drone-deep and battle-loud as she approached, daring any creature to stop her. The wasps watched her from a distance.

“Proud cousin Apis,” one called out, and her voice was as drunken and slurred as her wingbeats. “We owe your hive a visit. After winter, when we have slept . . .” She reeled away in the air without finishing her words, her sisters with her.

IN THE DANCE HALL Flora relayed what the wasp had said. Her sisters buzzed uneasily, for everyone knew that wasps were full of threats, but none had ever heard of them sleeping. The casual quality of “after winter” was also disturbing, as if the wasps had no anxiety at all about their survival—whereas the dwindling rations in the canteens made all the orchard bees food-obsessed, and many were secretly convinced there was not enough to go around.

All the bees in the Dance Hall began talking and speculating, their voices growing louder and louder—and then every sister halted, her mind transfixed by a strange new signal in the comb.

It was a vibration, almost imperceptible, yet it carried a pheromone more powerful than the strongest Thistle’s war gland. It was definitely not Devotion, but it demanded their complete attention. As the sisters set their feet to read it more clearly, disturbing waves of energy pulsed into their bodies. The sensation was the opposite of the blissful reassurance of the Queen’s Love; they felt apprehensive and pent-up, as if they were about to defend their hive—and yet there was no call to arms. Antennae poised and ready, the bees waited.

Sisters! The voice of the Hive Mind was low and intimate. To celebrate the new Age of Austerity, we shall perform the Great Obeisance to the Males. Go each of you and find them all. Allow no delays, but bring them to the Dance Hall.

The sisters ran to obey. Many of the drones were in their hall across the lobby, but it was with much grumbling and resistance that they were roused to go the short distance, for the smaller rations had provoked their gluttony, and staff shortages their laziness. Gradually they were cajoled out with pleading and flattery, and Flora felt a jab of irritation at their musty smell. Many of them had stale food in their fur, and one, Sir Poplar, refused to go another step without being groomed. The comb pulsed harder underfoot.

By any means. Bring every drone to the Dance Hall.

“Bloody Queen needs to know,” Sir Poplar muttered as they coaxed him into the Dance Hall. “Always her fault, when it comes down to it.” The sisters looked at him in shock.

“A great welcome to Your Malenesses,” spoke the beautiful wall of Sage priestesses, their wings unlatched and shimmering to heighten their kin-scent.

“Bah,” said Sir Poplar loudly. He looked around the crowded chamber and wiggled himself closer to Flora. “So this is where you old girls rattle and shake, is it?”

She drew away from him, disturbed by the new vibration in the comb and the alien smell of so many drones in the feminine preserve of the Dance Hall.

“We have performed our Treasury audit.” Sister Sage came forward. “Before we make the Great Obeisance to the Males, we shall read out the roll of honor. Sir Quercus: gone to glory!”

All the sisters applauded fervently, the drones less so.

“Sir Whitebeam: gone to glory.”

The sisters applauded again, but slower.

“Sir Alder?”

“Here.” His voice came from deep in the crowd of sisters.

“Sir Chequer—”

“Here.”

As Sister Sage went on, the roll call of answering drones sounded increasingly sulky.

“Sir Poplar?”

He yawned loudly.

“What? Oh . . . Here . . .”

“Sir Linden?” Sister Sage waited. “Missing in passion. Honor to him.”

“Honor to him,” responded the sisters.

“Clever little git, good riddance.” Sir Poplar pressed closer to Flora. “Very touching though, how you sisters get these crushes. Even when you know nothing can ever happen.” He fumbled intimately with her wing joint. “The way you followed him around, even to Congreg—” He gasped in pain as Flora squeezed her wing-latch shut and trapped his hand. “Holy Mother, where’s your sense of humor?”

“Attention.” Sister Sage commanded the chamber. The new vibration came more strongly through the comb and Flora let Sir Poplar retrieve his hand. He glared.

“All our brother drones are now accounted. Every sister kneel, then rise for the Great Obeisance to the Males.”