“The hive was impossible, a miracle of air and light. A great bell pulsing its one long low song through some secret action of its own. The vibrations were contagious. Dust's hands quivered, her lip, an eyelid. Priestesses clad in gamboge robes spoke in dance, making symbols in the swaying of a limb or the lifting of a foot. Stray bees rode the light like motes of dust. A priestess cupped her hand around one and whispered wishes and prayers, or a confession, her sins bound to the bee's legs like bales of pollen and sent where they might be made into something sweeter.”