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‘Do something about her breath—’
Flora swallowed hard. ‘I am very sorry, my ladies. It is the wasp’s blood.’
‘So shocking.’ Lady Burnet offered her water to drink. ‘But how wonderfully you speak; I can understand nearly every word. Not like a flora at all. Now if only you did not look it! Ladies, it would be a fitting tribute, would it not, for her bravery? Would you like that, my dear?’
‘To change my kin?’
‘And lose your wonderful heritage of service?’ Lady Burnet laughed. ‘Goodness me, no! But we might disguise it, a little.’
When they had exhausted their skills with grooming, pomade and propolis, the ladies trained Flora how to sit and rise, but were forced to let her splaying curtsy go uncorrected, for there was nothing to be done with that. When the comb trembled through the hive the ladies did not move to attend the service of Devotion, for here the Queen’s Love filled the chamber so strongly that anyone who entered became euphoric as they breathed.
Flora’s joy increased when she saw the food. Patisserie and nectar finer and more fragrant than she could ever have imagined were served to them by pretty sisters from Rosa and Bryony, but on observing Flora’s manners, the ladies all agreed she was still too uncouth to meet Her Majesty. They made her demonstrate the correct way to eat and drink so often that for the first time in her life, Flora’s hunger was satisfied and she could leave food uneaten. Then they bid her keep her hands still to let set the fashionable shapes they had twisted into her fur, so she rested in great contentment, listening to their bright bubbling conversation – and, despite the vanity, surreptitiously admired the sheen of her newly polished legs.
* * *
After supper they took Flora with them to fulfil the daily duty of visiting the Queen’s Library. When they closed all the doors of the hexagonal chamber, one continuous mosaic of coded scent tiles ran round the walls, and featured on each was one small central panel. Flora sniffed in fascination, detecting the bouquet of home amidst the many unfamiliar smells.
‘Instead of Devotion,’ whispered Lady Primrose, ‘we maintain the Stories of Scent. Not nearly as pleasant, but just follow along and we shall soon be out. We’ll only do the first three, so don’t worry.’
The ladies formed a line and put Flora at the end. They walked in a circle around the chamber repeating the Our Mother, and then Lady Burnet stopped in front of a panel.
‘The first story is called The Honeyflow.’ She smiled at Flora. ‘The lightest touch, then move back.’ She dipped her antennae and touched the panel to demonstrate. Immediately the scent of flowers rose up from it, developing and blending as each of the ladies took their turn. Flora marvelled to recognise the ancient kin-scents: the Sage and the Teasel, the Rosebay Willowherb, the Clover, Violet, Celandine, Burnet, Thistle, Malus, Bindweed and all of them. Of the floras, there was no reference.
‘Quickly, my dear.’ Lady Burnet’s voice had the slightest tremor. ‘We must move along.’
As Flora touched her antennae to the first panel, all the blossom of spring burst into life and the air was filled with orchard sweetness and the scent of lush grass. But before she could fully enjoy it, a pressure wave went through the air in the chamber. She heard the harsh caw of birds and smelled the sharp tang of a wasp.
As she leapt back in shock, all the ladies laughed nervously.
‘A common reaction,’ said Lady Burnet, ‘but it is only a story; it cannot hurt you. Fresh as dew, yet made in the Time before Time. Is it not a marvel? And better that we learn of the Myriad – though you of course have met one already.’
The ladies clapped politely. Flora felt embarrassed.
‘There are others – of the Myriad? Not just wasps?’
‘Oh, they are legion. It means all those who would hurt us, or steal from us, or who pollute and destroy our rightful food. Like flies, for instance.’ Lady Burnet put a hand to her head. ‘Take great care in here, lest all the stories stir at once – our antennae would split with shock.’ She turned to her ladies. ‘I think we may conclude for this evening.’
‘But there are five more.’ Flora gazed at the other walls, from which intricate and unknown scents coiled then curled back in, without diffusing into the air. She looked to the ladies for explanation and saw all of their antennae quivering with stress, and that Lady Primrose was on the edge of panic. Lady Burnet forced a smile.
‘To tend these panels is to strengthen the Hive Mind with the ancient scent-stories of our faith. The priestesses do not expect us to read each one.’ She looked down. ‘The first and second panels are enough. The rest … hold terrors.’
‘I am not afraid,’ said Flora. ‘I long to serve my hive.’
‘My dear – please recall your kin. Do not presume—’
Lady Meadowsweet coughed and looked at Lady Burnet, a world of meaning in her gaze. ‘Does it matter who reads them, if the duty is done?’
‘Yes,’ added Lady Violet, ‘I have heard her kin have less nerves.’
‘And would be less affected,’ agreed pretty Lady Primrose.
Flora stepped forward.
‘Please, my ladies, if I may do any duty, to the hive or the Queen – I am strong and willing’ – pressing her knees tight, she knelt before them – ‘and I long to serve!’
The ladies clapped again. Lady Burnet raised her up.
‘Very well. The second story is called The Kindness.’
Flora saw how the ladies flinched at the name. She stood up stronger.
‘I have heard that word before. I will do it.’
She walked to the next panel. As she touched her antennae to it, the voices and hubbub of the hive rose up all around them, and the wonderful comforting smell of sisters rustling their wings for sleep. She was overwhelmed by love for all her sisters, and the beauty of the hive. Then her feet tingled as if walking on coded tiles, and in her mind she saw herself walking down a long corridor, with a Thistle guard. She saw herself kneel, her knees still splayed, then bend her head low to the wax as the guard braced her feet and raised a great sharp claw above her.
Forgive me, sister—
Pain streaked through the join of Flora’s head and thorax. She cried out and staggered back from the panel.
She was in the Queen’s Library, and the ladies stood watching. She felt her body – unharmed – but the shock of the blow reverberated.
‘I – I don’t understand.’
Lady Primrose giggled nervously.
‘Every sister sees her own end. Though we never go as far as you just did – it is enough to walk the corridor and know what is coming!’
‘The Kindness means death?’
‘Amen,’ chorused the ladies. ‘No use to the hive, no use for life!’
At their hysterical laughter Flora laughed too, excited by the terrible vision.
‘Let me do another! Now I understand—’
‘You understand nothing – you are merely brave.’ Lady Burnet leavened her words with a smile. ‘But if you would take one more, then half are done, and our duty is amply fulfilled.’ She followed Flora’s eyes around the last three. ‘No. Those are too strong, only the priestesses tend those stories.’
‘Then one more.’ Flora drew herself up, proud of her courage and the awe in the eyes of these fine ladies. ‘And with all my heart.’
The other bees stood near the door as Lady Burnet positioned Flora at the third panel.
‘Keep your wings latched,’ she told her, ‘and stop at any time.’
Flora stepped forward and touched her antennae to the wax mosaic. It was plainer than the second, its scent held close to the wax as if to shield its secret, but as she focused, its peculiar fragrance structure began to part.
First came the intense bouquet of the hive, strong and welcoming and laced with the wealth of a million different flowers’ nectar. It smelled of sunshine and sisters, and Flora drew it in more deeply, searching for the strange accent note she had first registered. It darted at the edge of her consciousness, just out of reach.
‘Good, that is enough,’ murmured Lady Burnet from the door. ‘Let us go.’
But the olfactory loop held Flora’s attention: the hive, the sun, the honey – then without warning came a blast of wild cold air and choking smoke. Flora staggered. Her body was in the room but her senses flooded with the panic of ten thousand sisters roaring their engines, the dazing sun and the overpowering smell of honey.
‘That story is called The Visitation.’
The voice was sweet and thrilling, and the hand that touched Flora took away her fear.
‘It tells of robbery and terror, and the survival of our people.’ The scent mirage was gone, and in its place an intense pure wave of Devotion filled the chamber. Flora dropped to her six knees, at last in the presence of the Queen. She laid her antennae along the ground in reverence.
‘Brave daughter.’
Flora looked up. At first all she could see was the golden aura, but then Her Majesty’s beautiful eyes shone through, lit with kindness and love. She was magnificently large, with long shapely legs and a graceful tapering abdomen, full and buoyant under the golden tracery of her folded wings.
‘Mother,’ Flora whispered.
‘Child,’ said the Queen. ‘Do not be ashamed.’ She raised Flora to her feet and smiled at all her ladies. ‘Come, my daughters, let us be more comfortable in my chamber, that I may hear about my ancient cousin Vespa’s wicked venture.’
Eleven (#u3261d611-1179-5c8e-8b2c-4c2ff06b0395)
Flora 717, low of kin and sweeper of filth, now sat with the Queen and her ladies in Her Majesty’s own private sitting room, eating jewelled lily-cakes and drinking fresh nectar, while she told her story of the wasp and the heat ball. Without warning the Queen scanned her, then to Flora’s shame the smell of the wasp rose from her body again. The ladies started in fright and protested they had washed her.
‘Hush, daughters.’ The Queen smiled. ‘I only wished to make sure that even in its last traces, the scent of the Vespa had not changed. Her ancient envy still beats strong; that is why they want to steal from us, as if our honey or our children will give them our power. In the Time before Time they chose blood above nectar, and we became foes.’
Lady Burnet clasped her hands. ‘Immortal Mother protects Her children.’
‘Hallowed be Thy Womb,’ all the ladies responded, Flora too, as the words rose unbidden from her tongue.
‘Leave me, daughters.’
Then the Queen lay down on her couch of petals, folded herself in a haze of scented sleep and vanished from their view.
* * *
The ladies showed Flora her bed, and it was soft and sweetly scented, almost as fragrant as the cribs in Category One.
‘Because the Nursery is just beyond that door,’ said Lady Violet from her neighbouring couch. ‘Perhaps you shall see it tomorrow when we attend Holy Mother at Her Laying Progress. With all the eggs and glowing cribs – it is a sacred marvel beyond words.’ She coughed. ‘Do not be offended if we cannot take you.’
‘I will not.’
‘Your humble attitude is honour to your kin.’ Then Lady Violet wrapped herself in a thin scented veil of sleep and spoke no more. Flora lay in the darkness, breathing in the divine nurturing perfume that held them like a tender embrace. She drew it deep into her body until she felt her abdomen soften and glow.
* * *
The next morning the sun bell rang and the Queen’s fragrance rose strong and sweet as the ladies opened the doors to the Nursery. They called Flora to come with them and they entered the great chamber of Category One behind a dense veil of seclusion. They were now in the most sacred area of the hive, the Laying Rooms, row upon row of immaculate cribs empty and waiting for the Queen.
The Queen’s scent rose high as she went into her birth trance. Her face shone brighter, her scent pulsed, then with a fast graceful rhythm she began swinging her magnificent long abdomen from side to side, each time sliding the tip deep within a crib. At the back of the Progress, carrying the water and cooling cloths, Flora saw the faint point of light remaining in the wax, where a tiny new egg adhered to the bottom. Each one glowed with soft gold light then faded down as the Queen moved on, her birth dance so hypnotically beautiful that Flora wanted to swing her own body in joy, but seeing that none of the other ladies danced but followed most demurely, she held her urge in check and did as they did.
Six times she returned to the Queen’s chambers for fresh water and pollen cakes before all the cribs were filled. The Laying Room was soft and bright with new life, the Queen stood proud and exhausted, and her ladies wept in delight.
Back in the Queen’s chambers, Lady Burnet directed Flora to clean and make ready the common parts while she and the other ladies took Her Majesty into her private sanctum to prepare her for rest. As Lady Violet closed the doors, Flora curtsied and gazed her last on Holy Mother, her heart filled with love and a tearing sadness that this day of beauty and wonder was over. With scrupulous attention she swept and cleaned, knowing that when the doors opened again, she must leave.
The ladies-in-waiting filed back out. Determined to show that a sanitation worker had manners, Flora pressed her knees straight and curtsied to Lady Burnet.
‘Thank you for all your—’
‘Oh, do not be so craven.’ Lady Burnet had a strange look on her face. ‘Holy Mother has requested you attend her again.’
‘Me?’ Flora looked around at the ladies. None smiled.
‘You.’ Lady Burnet spoke neutrally. ‘Do not linger, go at once.’
* * *
The Queen parted her golden aura when Flora entered and bade her sit beside her. Then she drew it close again, so that Flora was wrapped in it with her.
‘I have not left the hive since my marriage flight. Now I only taste the world through food and drink, and the stories of my Library.’ The Queen gazed through her golden veil, as if out upon the open sky. ‘Did they frighten you?’
‘Yes, Holy Mother, at first. Then I wanted to know more.’
‘They tell of our religion, and must be fed with attention. After my labours I have not strength to scent them myself, though my ladies do their best. The priestesses read them when they can, but in these strange times they are so busy with matters of governance that it is not their priority.’ The Queen smiled. ‘Tales of the world, my daughter, of beauty and terror.’
‘Holy Mother, I will read them gladly – after the wasp, I fear nothing.’
The Queen’s laugh sent ripples of delight through Flora’s body, though she did not know how she had so amused her.
‘Let us see,’ said the Queen. ‘The first three will be enough for you.’
* * *
And so Flora kept her position as attendant to the ladies-in-waiting for another day, fetching water and refreshments for them until the Queen had laid her thousand eggs and returned to her chamber – and then her second job began.
While the ladies groomed each other, ate their supper and the Queen rested, Flora went to the Library. Without the anxiety of the other ladies around her, she was calm and could focus, and the intense energy of the chamber no longer overwhelmed her. In the still air she detected wisps and trails of the story fragrances as their living energy drew her attention and sought release – but this time she was determined not to lose control.
Very carefully, Flora scented the first story panel. There it was, The Honeyflow in all its blossoming glory, the foragers calling to each other in the Old Tongue – and there were the terrors of the Myriad lurking in wait.
Beside that was The Kindness, where a sister saw her own death by the hand of another. Then came the third, that honey-scented door to chaos – The Visitation, from whence a filament of smoke curled out its invitation. Flora stepped back, and the smoke retreated. The Queen had said three panels were enough, but excitement coursed through her body. If the priestesses were too busy to read the last three panels, then surely it would be of benefit to the hive if she could perform that service.
She looked at the last three panels. No tremors went through her antennae, nor did her feet drag forward without intention. The lilting singing of the ladies in the rest area beyond came through the walls, sweetly reassuring. Flora stepped up to the fourth panel, and the singing grew louder. A beautiful choral sound filled the chamber, the sound of ten thousand sisters singing one word that ebbed and flowed around the Library, as if they moved just beyond its walls. Flora could not quite decipher it, and as she concentrated the Library filled with the bright busy smell of the Dance Hall – and a great pressure wave rolled through the chamber.
Expiation! The choral blast of the word made Flora stagger. It echoed and died away, and the scent of the Dance Hall faded down.
Flora shook herself, her blood racing. Though she did not understand the strange word or the scents, and the feeling in her body challenged her to flee, the Queen wanted her to know the stories, and she would not fail her.
Flora moved on to the fifth and penultimate panel. At first glance it was very simple – just one carved leaf. As she looked more closely, it took on a golden hue and its filigreed veins pulsed energy that grew into a stalk, then a stem which stretched down the length of the panel and into the floor, its golden roots spreading all through the chamber and back up the walls until they met overhead. The heavenly smell of Holy Mother rose up strongly, mingled with the rich aromatic scent of pollen. Flora looked up and saw the roots had joined into a knot at the centre point of the vaulted Library ceiling that swelled into a crown-shaped fruit. It grew larger and larger, then burst apart in a shower of golden dust.
The Library returned to normal – but a blow of sadness struck Flora in her heart as the name of the panel spoke in her mind. The Golden Leaf. Suddenly the beauty of the strange story was loathsome and Flora felt a terrible grief – but nothing had happened, nor was she hurt in any way. She stepped back from the fifth panel. It was deeply disturbing – and yet even as Flora recoiled from the dark and twisting feeling that had risen in her heart, a little part of her mind whispered praise for her own endurance – she had read five stories! How pleased the Queen would be with her, and how wonderful to be able to help the busy priestesses!
There was one last story. The sixth panel smelled inert, yet held a powerful stillness. Cautiously, Flora focused on it. Nothing happened; no scent, no image, no sound came forth, but the air in the Library grew warm and close. From the centre of the little panel blew a faint trace of fresh air. Feeling as if she was suffocating, Flora could not help drawing nearer.
The Library vanished and she smelled the Nursery. One crib pulled her closer, huge and dark. Deep within it a baby cried in pain, and a cold wind howled. As Flora ran towards it, the crib began to rattle and break apart. The baby cried louder and as she leaned over the crib to see it, a twisting black comet screamed out of its depths and into her brain.
