The girl appears to float in the low brume. Her skin is transparent. Veins tick in her temples, mysterious as the workings
of an opened clock. Oblivious to her sister watching from
the fence, she gazes entranced at her hands, which are blanketed in something dark and moving.
An anxious crevice forms between the sister’s moth
eyes. Instinct, a twist in her gut, tells her to bolt, to run
back to the house and slam the door, to throw herself into
the solid embrace of her father. She can imagine the rough
wool kiss of his jacket against her cheek, the safe squeeze
of his arms.
But her father isn’t there. He left before dawn, with the
groom, to visit a patient. She had heard, through a haze of
half-sleep, the hollow timpani of the horses’ hoofs on the
cobbles. When he is absent, she feels a desperate emptiness, as if he might never return and she will be left to care
for her sisters alone, adrift in a world she does not yet fully
comprehend.
Her father’s voice is in her head – Melis is different. You
must take special care of her, or she will be crushed by the world. She
turns, almost expecting to see him close by, but there is
nothing, just the snap and hum of insects in the crisp air.
She shivers, calling to her sister.
Melis doesn’t respond, is entirely bound into her own
impenetrable universe.
Hester girds herself, climbing over the fence, jumping down into the dew-drenched grass, the cold of it smacking
her bare ankles. The wet soon clogs her canvas slippers,
her hem absorbing it thirstily, making her skirts heavy as
she approaches her floating sister.
‘What in Heaven’s name . . . ?’ She can see now that
Melis’s hands are encrusted with bees, a great agitating
mass that obscures her skin, spilling down her wrists and
up her sleeves.
Without looking away from the swarm, Melis whispers,
‘I have their queen.’ She has a disturbing, feverish air about
her, and Hester wishes she knew what to do. She feels the
fast, hard thump of her heart. They knew of a child in
Oxford once, who’d fallen into a bees’ nest and died of the
stings.
A few of the insects break away, vibrating close, as if to
learn whether Hester is friend or foe, close enough for her
to feel the disturbance of air against the skin of her face.
She resists the temptation to bat them off, standing stock
still until they leave.
‘They sing to me – tell me secrets.’ Melis transfers her
stare momentarily towards Hester, who releases an involuntary gasp at the sight of her sister’s horror-struck
expression. ‘The blackest secrets.’
‘You’re imagining things.’ Hester does her best to muster her common sense but her thumping chest is making
her feel lightheaded.
When Melis looks back again, her expression is transformed, now serene. ‘Watch this.’ She opens her fist. A
small bullet flies out, disappearing into a bank of nettles.
The swarm moves after it directly, in a great dark cloud,
leaving only half a dozen confused malingerers on Melis’s
white lap,
The girls watch the bees depart in silence, and only once
they have disappeared does Melis inspect her open palm.
‘She can sting as many times as she wants. See!’ She thrusts
her hand towards Hester. ‘And survive.’ There are several
angry-looking welts, bright pink against the pale skin. ‘But
the workers die if they sting. They defend her with their
lives.’
Hester doesn’t know how to respond.
‘Why such sacrifice? It must be something to do with
there being only one queen in a hive. Did you know that,
Hester? Just one queen.’
‘How do you know?’ Hester asks.
‘They told me so.’
‘They? Who?’
‘The bees, of course.’ Her eyes widen, the pupils
expanding – drops of treacle spreading on a plate.
‘Come inside.’ Hester holds out her hand. ‘Please.’ She
breathes into her cupped hands to warm them. ‘You’ll
catch your death.’
But Melis’s eyebrows ruffle, like birds drawn by a child,
and her lids slide open.
The tormented look has returned,
causing unease to seep into Hester, right to her core.
‘Don’t you want to know what the queen said, what she
showed me?’
Hester is tugging at her sister’s hand now but Melis
shakes herself free. ‘I saw Father.’
‘What do you mean?’
But Melis has crumpled, is scratching at her eyes and
dissolving into strange, anguished sobs. ‘Help me,
Hessie. You must help me. They show me things I don’t
want to see.’
Hester slides down to take her tightly in her arms, rocking her back and forth. Beneath her hands, Melis feels
insubstantial, breakable. ‘You’re safe. I’m here. I won’t let
anything happen to you . . .’
The quiet is shattered with the hammer of approaching
hoofs – closer and closer.
The girls huddle together.
A vast shape vaults the orchard fence and comes to a
halt, quivering and striated with foam, head tossing manically. It is their father’s horse.
Hester begins to unravel but forces the frayed parts of
herself together as she approaches the petrified animal.
He backs away.
‘Poseidon. Here, boy. Here.’ She makes a quiet clucking
sound, waiting, motionless, for him to drop his head and
inch towards her. Finally he allows her to stroke his muzzle lightly, and blows his hot, heavy breath into her hand.
‘What’s happened, boy?’
Melis is still rocking back and forth, emitting a low
moan, almost a song, almost a dirge. From the side of her
eye Hester notices the small form of their half-sister toddling towards the orchard gate.
‘Stay there, Hope.’ She dashes towards the infant, foreboding rattling round her head like a dried pea in a pan.
She picks Hope up, heaving her onto her hip, just as the
groom clatters into the yard.
He is running, calling to the girls, and leading his own
horse by the reins.
Something heavy is slung over its back.
Hester can see the boots she had polished the night
before hanging limply against the chestnut flanks.
Hope, too young to understand, Melis has drawn beside her sisters and is staring, tears
coursing silently down her face.
‘Poseidon bolted.’ The groom is distraught, his face
ashen. ‘Your da fell. Cracked his head.’ He rips off his cap.
He’s young, can’t even grow a beard yet. ‘It were quick. He
wouldn’t have known nothing about it, God rest his soul.’
He presses a hand to his heart.
New distress breaks over Melis’s face, her voice cracking. ‘I ‒ I saw his head hit the ground.’ She twists her fists
into her eyes, as if to rub the vision out of them.
Hope, understanding now that something is wrong,
begins to howl.
Hester can’t speak, can’t think, can’t move. Her smallest
sister is inconsolable in her arms, the other is raving, and
she must keep the fragile edifice of their family from tumbling, while her every crevice crowds with dread.prods at their father.
‘Wake up, Papa.
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