She went out with her bowl of massage ointment. As soon as she had gone Flora curled her body over and breathed deeply until the strange sensation passed. Then she peered out into the hall. To her dismay she saw the dandified little figure of Sir Linden standing talking to Sister Cowslip. Too late, she ducked back.
“You there!” Sister Cowslip called her. “Who do you attend? His glorious Maleness here requires grooming.” Praying her striped legs and pomaded fur concealed the truth, Flora took a bowl and went out.
Sister Cowslip sniffed her immediately. “You have a most peculiar odor, almost like a cleaner—”
“Sir Linden!” Flora dropped a narrow curtsy. “Forgive my past mistakes; I beg to now attend you!”
Drones nearby burst out laughing.
“Ugly but keen, Linden. Better than nothing.”
He sniffed at Flora. “Oh, it’s you! The disobedient one!”
Sister Cowslip looked from one to the other. “I’m sorry to hear that—I am sure we can find one better, Your Maleness—”
“No, no, this exact one will do. Begone.” He waved Sister Cowslip away, then spread his legs and puffed his chest at Flora. “My masculinity no longer scares you?”
“I must bear it, Sir.” Flora kept her antennae downcast.
“Indeed! Well then, up with you and do my bidding—or it’s the Kindness!” Sir Linden beckoned for her to follow, strutted through the other drones, and then threw himself down on a banquette. “I am ready. Begin.”
Flora looked at the other sisters and their drones. Reluctantly, she began anointing Sir Linden’s legs. The hooks on the third pair were so small as to almost be like a sister’s.
“You may say pleasant things to me.” Sir Linden shifted more comfortably.
Unable to think of anything, Flora began humming a melody the ladies had sung in the Queen’s Chambers.
Sir Linden looked up. “That is a bawdy tune; you should not even know it. Continue, but no words or Sister Cowpat will evict you. Then I shall have no one, not even a fright like you.” He stared morosely around the chamber. “Quercus was chosen today. I suppose you heard.”
“Glory to our hive.”
“Oh, spare me—he was just a great flying wad of sperm. The thought of that boorish idiot in a golden palace, drowning in honey and mounting his royal beauty at will—” Sir Linden shuddered in irritation. “And as for that fat oaf”—he gestured at Sir Poplar—“it’s a miracle he’s still alive, for he is so loud every bird in the sky must hear him taking off, and so slow a flower might bloom and die before he rises.”
“Then it is a race?”
“A race and a chase.”
At his words a nearby drone leaned forward.
“Until every princess is mated,” he cried.
“And every brother king of his own palace!” called another.
Many drones stamped and cheered, and Sister Cowslip glowed in delight and sent her girls scurrying around to replenish empty goblets and plates.
“You see?” Sir Linden threw himself down again. “That’s the essence of it. Congregation is all about shouting, shoving, and bragging—then barging ahead.”
“Is it . . . a ceremony?”
“Stupid girl—a place . A subtle place in the highest reaches of the air, at a sweet convergence of the winds. A place where all the noble males of different hives come to gather, and princesses visit to make their choice.” He pulled his ruff straight. “Of course, the more fellows, the better the atmosphere—but the more competition.”
“There is not a princess for each?”
Sir Linden laughed and turned again to the drone hall. “Brothers!” he called out. “My loyal retainer knows nothing of our great work—shall we speak to them of love?”
“Yes! Love!” cried out all the sisters in the Drones’ Hall, even Sister Cowslip. “Tell us of love, please!” They clustered around their drones, and all faces turned to Sir Linden. He cleared his throat, puffed his ruff, and began.
“Hear you that our noble brother
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