I promised her my silence!

“Holy Mother was sick in her chamber,” Flora whispered. “That is my secret.”

Sister Sage withdrew her pressure, and when she spoke her voice was gentle. “Her Majesty is sick?”

Flora stared at the resin sarcophagus, then nodded. Her beloved Mother had begged her not to speak of it, and she had promised not to tell another soul. Now she had betrayed the Queen in every conceivable way. But even as she despised herself, Flora felt her control returning—and locked her antennae tight.

“That was long ago,” she said. “But just now in the Cluster, when I gave Her Majesty nectar, she was strong.” Flora stared at the priestess. She had cleared the morgue herself and seen the Sage bodies. She had touched those three strange tombs in the secret chamber behind the Treasury, and knew that they too held Sage. “Is there sickness in our hive?”

“Of course not.” Sister Sage groomed her own antennae, as if from soiling contact. “But the Cluster permits nightmares, as a way of cleansing our minds. And as foragers must withstand more sights than most, you might well have fearsome fantasies.” The priestess let her scent flow smooth. “If Holy Mother has been unwell, it is crucial you tell us. For the good of the colony.”

Light footsteps sounded in the corridor, and five identical priestesses entered. Sister Sage made an almost imperceptible motion to them, and they stood silent.

“Return to the Cluster,” she said to Flora. “The Melissae must confer.”

THE LIVING ORB OF SISTERS still pulsed with gossip of the mouse when Flora got back. To her astonishment, she heard the sanitation workers talking in low voices. She took her place and looked at them. They were smiling.

“In the Dreaming,” one whispered. “We took back our tongues.”

Then the scent of the kin of Sage flowed toward them as the priestesses returned. All the bees stopped talking and parted to let them disappear deep within the Cluster, near the Queen. Then the Holy Chord began to vibrate, and the Hive Mind spoke.

The danger has passed. We now resume our trance.

Accept, Obey, and Serve.

The bees murmured in response and settled their antennae for rest. Threads of the Queen’s Love drifted to the outer layers where her daughters clung in the cold, but the beautiful fragrance gave Flora no comfort.

Thirty-Four

FREEZING FOG CRAWLED DOWN ON THE HIVE, ITS clammy touch probing every unsealed gap. In the dense, chilled clump of life within, there was no more energy for dreaming, and the only message pulsing slowly through the Cluster was that every sister’s warmth was vital, and none might leave. In the rare few hours of runted sun, Flora and other foragers raised their antennae in hope, but it was still too cold to fly.

Three quarters of the Treasury walls were empty when the first signs came. The sisters did not stir, for even to think of spring would cost them psychic energy—but secretly each of them began to register a change.

The wooden walls creaked as they dried. The air thinned, and new scents stirred. Was that the soil they smelled?

Sisters began to shift their grip but kept their antennae connected to the trance, fearful of the agonizing disappointment if they were wrong. Flora unsealed both of hers—then raised her head in excitement. The air pressure was definitely changing—high above the Treasury ceiling the skies were opening. Since her desperate frozen flight back from the cage of glass, she had not been out or smelled any green and living thing—but now as the first seeds split deep within the earth, a primal scent began to rise.

One day the sun shone stronger and in the orchard the first bird sang. Deep in the Cluster the Queen stirred. Her fragrance pulsed stronger and stronger through her daughters’ dreams, rocking their senses back to life—until with a shimmering burst the bees awoke to the great change in the air and joy at the coming of spring.

Euphoric with relief, Flora untangled herself and stretched her cramped limbs. She looked immediately for Sir Linden to acknowledge his survival, but he had already disappeared into the great shifting landscape of the Cluster’s disintegration.

A brown-and-gold tide of bees streamed down the Treasury walls and a thousand scent instructions and affirmations wove the air. Comb tingled underfoot as thousands of feet reactivated the dormant scent codes.

“Make all ready! Make all ready!” the sisters called ahead, and everyone pressed back in thrilled excitement as the Queen herself came rushing through on a great cloud of fragrance.

“Attend, attend!” she called, and the smell of her rising fertility trailed behind her sweeter than nectar. Then came her ladies-in-waiting running to follow, all their pretty fur in disarray, antennae waving disheveled at their sudden return to duty.

“Attend, attend!” they cried as they ran, and all the bees cheered in joyous relief and sang the Queen’s Prayer to spread the good news: Holy Mother was preparing to lay again, and winter was finally over.

IT WAS WONDERFUL AND STRANGE to be at liberty in the hive again. Sisters from Propolis immediately got to work repairing the damage the great mouse had wreaked with its gnawing and crashing around, and sanitation workers set about cleaning the dirt it had brought with it. Foragers rushed past Flora toward the landing board, but a phalanx of priestesses stood in the midlevel lobby surveying the damage and repairs. Flora could not help herself. She sealed her antennae and went up to one.

“Sister, may I be permitted to ask a question?”

“Speak.”

“Did the spiders in the orchard speak truly?”

The priestess’s antennae pulsed hard and high for a second, then she drew them down.

“Why do you ask? ”

“They spoke of two winters. But now it is spring.”

“A strange memory, to hold all through the Cluster. Would you rather the spiders spoke true, or false?”

Flora was silent. Twice comes winter; one more egg.

“False, Sister, for they wish us no good.”

“Then why bring their malice to mind?”

“So many lives were sold in payment for what they said, that if they lied—”

The priestess groomed her antennae, and when they rose again, Flora knew she had sealed them, as if she too had something to hide.

“The Cluster survived, did it not?” The priestess let her kin-scent flow. “Fly while you can, old forager. Bring us food!”

“Accept, Obey, and Serve.” Flora bowed, and ran for the board. The priestess had not answered her question. There was still hope.

IT WAS A JOY TO SEE the Thistle guards standing at arms on the board again, and when Flora laid her own kin-scent along with all the other homecoming markers, they saluted her like any other forager. She shivered her engine back to life and stretched her long cramped wings. They hurt as the sun roused blood through the silver membranes, and her joints felt stiff. She was aging, there was no doubt—and so were other foragers who showed yet greater wear and tear. But as they streamed high into the sparkling air, the sounds of their engines were joyous and strong.

Flora leaped to join them. If anything, the long confinement had made her faster and more agile than before, and the very thought of a cold sister clinging on to her body sent her faster in pursuit of the wonderful smell of pollen.

It came from a straggly line of willows edging a field, their leaves still furled in sleep but their acid-yellow catkins just opening with their first wave of pollen. There was no nectar, for all the trees were male, but after her long fast, Flora craved the thick carbohydrate of pollen. She ran up and down the golden pendants, triggering the precious dust to shower all over her body, then she combed it off and packed it hard and tight into expert bundles. She ate until her strength was restored, and the taste and the freedom made her hum for joy. When bees from other hives joined her in the branches, they greeted each other in the most beautiful word of their tongue: Spring!