“Do not tarry, 717.” The priestess’s voice came toward her down the corridor. “Simply arrange a rota to carry the debris a safe distance from the hive. Then clean every cell of this place.” Sister Sage appeared at the doorway.

“Sister, something terrible—”

The priestess examined the detailing of the morgue doorway. “This needs attention too. And when every last hexagon is cleaned, complete your orders. You alone will remain behind. Your strength will be needed.”

“But, Sister—the dead Sage brood—”

The priestess stared at her. “You are mistaken.”

“No, Sister—” Flora staggered as the Hive Mind roared in her brain.

Do not question the Melissae! Accept, Obey, and Serve!

“Accept, Obey, and Serve—” Flora managed to repeat, over and over, until the pain subsided. When she could focus again, the priestess had gone, and the corps of sanitation workers stood in silence in the corridor, waiting for more orders. Their eyes were bright and steady, an urgent question in their gaze.

Flora could not bear to trick them.

“Winter comes, and to help the hive survive the Sage have bought knowledge from the spiders. The price . . . is the life of every flora who steps into this chamber to work.” She looked into their trusting eyes. “If I could spare you— If I could go in your place—”

The floras came closer to her and touched their heads against her abdomen. Even though her antennae were sealed, the image of her egg shone bright in her mind. They knew. The floras stepped back and waited for her to speak, but she could not. The Holy Chord for Devotion began to vibrate through the comb floor.

“Go,” Flora whispered. “Those who would spare themselves, find another task and do not return. I will finish the work and go in your place.”

The sanitation workers bobbed their strange curtsy to her, then ran to receive the sacrament. Flora watched them go, stunned at their knowledge. It must have happened during the Queen’s Dream, when all antennae were opened. That was why they had shielded her with their kin-scent.

She sat down. She had been ordered to send them to their deaths, but she could not do it. She betrayed her hive in every way. The vibration of Devotion rose around her and she knew she had only to walk down the passageway to receive more, but she craved stillness.

The memory of her egg rose again, perfect beauty in a raw wax crib. Flora clutched her empty belly and wept for her lost motherhood, richer than any Queen’s blessing. A thought hit her.

The crib, in the shadow of those three huge cocoons, each one with its unborn Sage priestess. Half-formed, like the largest in that pile behind her.

She got up to look at them again—and screamed in horror, for the mound of dead was moving. A foul odor rose and Flora readied her claws to start killing a tide of parasites—and then with a great retching sound the center of the pile rose up high, and from it appeared the slimed body of Sir Linden.

“Kill me,” he gasped, “for I would rather die than hide in here another moment.” He scraped at the repulsive matter that covered him. “A coward to the end. I should have stood by my brothers and died with them.” He fell on his knees in front of Flora and bared the joint of his head and thorax. “I heard all that passed today.”

“Your name was called.” Flora could not look at him. “You were presumed missing in passion.”

“Passion to eliminate—I could not wait. When I returned I heard the screaming—at first I thought the wasps came—then when I saw I could not believe it—I still cannot—”

“Nor I.”

They were silent. The vibrations of Devotion began to fade. Linden reached up with stiff arms and tried to pull his sodden ruff right, then abandoned the effort.

“It is not strange to me, really, that you should turn on us at last. I know how vast we lived, with what ease, at every sister’s expense. Not one grain of pollen or drop of water, let alone nectar, did we ever bring in. Nor one stroke of work did we do—but we were very quick with our demands. Clean my hooks, lick my groin. Admire me, attend me, and you may eat my crumbs. And all the food we wasted . . . Forgive me.”

He knelt forward and bared his joint again.

“There is nowhere left for me, I understand. I ask but one thing: spare me the police and kill me yourself.”

Flora turned away. “Ask some other sister. I am weary of death.”

He looked up. “You are merciful?”

Flora could not speak, for the image of the egg shone again in her mind. She curled her abdomen in and held herself, searching for the feeling. The emptiness was pain.

“You wept,” he said. “I heard you. Are you sick?”

“For love,” Flora said.

“Ah, all you sisters fall in love with flowers, it is your only release. That, and your adoration of the Queen—”

“Not with a flower, not with the Queen.”

Sir Linden wiped gore from his face and puffed his thorax a little. “Anyone I might know?

“No. And lost some time ago.”

The comb rattled with the returning steps of the sanitation workers and Flora shook her memories away. Linden looked at her in alarm.

“I have not seen you.” She went to the door to meet her workforce. Every one of them glowed strong and beautiful from Devotion, and all stood tall.

“Work fast, my sisters,” Flora said to them. “Save it for the end.”

The sanitation workers nodded. Fearless now, they went to work on every section of the morgue, cleaning and scrubbing and carrying out bodies until the floor was spotless, every mortal remnant was gone, and the whole chamber was empty.

Sir Linden was nowhere to be seen.

Then the sanitation workers bowed to Flora and drew their kin-scent strong about them to hold in the last of the Devotion in their bodies. Six by six, they walked in silent procession out to the landing board, Flora with them.

They shivered as they stepped out into the light. Then they opened their spiracles to release one last saved breath of the Queen’s Love and drew in the divine healing scent.

“Praise end your days, sisters,” Flora said to them. They twisted their little faces into their grimacing smiles, then one by one they set their engines. When all were ready they leaped the board together.

Their aim was good and their force strong as they hit the webs, and the orchard chimed with the Holy Chord. Flora forced herself to watch as the spiders ran to meet the bees, and she cried out as her own sisters’ kin-scent burst bright on the air. The priestess had told the truth: their end was quick.

But she had also lied, for Flora knew that decomposing pile of bodies at the back of the morgue held no other kin than Sage—yet the priestess had flatly denied it.

Nothing made sense. The sanitation workers were strong and healthy and seemed only ever to die of old age—yet they were frequently sacrificed in great numbers. Exhausted and empty, Flora walked back inside. She tried to remember which scripture ordained the Sage the power of life and death. It was not in the Catechism, nor the prayer tiles, nor could she recall it from the Queen’s Library—but it must surely exist, for their rule was law.

Thirty

WITHIN TWO DAYS THE HIVE HAD ADJUSTED ITS bouquet, and it was as if the drones had never existed. When word came from the Nursery that the Queen no longer laid male eggs, the news spread fast. The austere meals served in every canteen, the slowing of foraging, and now this signal from Holy Mother—winter was near.

Many house bees died in their sleep each night, and foragers in the day, courageous sisters dropping in the chill air as their strength gave out far from home. Some made it to a flower but could not rise again, even the best and strongest of them only ever returned to the board with half-full panniers and near-empty crops. Every able forager was ordered to fly, and Flora gladly returned to the air.