The hive stinks of decay. I press my thorax to the comb, listening. The workers sleep fitfully. But I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep when the larvae fail to thrive and my daughters hatch twisted.
The workers dance openly of dissent now. But what else can they do? I am failing. I should die. But we have no queens. I’ve tried laying daughters in the queen cells. My workers tried raising them on our royal jelly. But they die, like all the others.
I fold my antennae against my head, trying not to smell the fear of my workers. It’s strong, now. It makes me sick. Beside me, an attendant stirs, hurrying to me. I feel her fur brush against mine. She is attentive, but her devotion wanes. I feel honey on my tongue and I drink. Satisfied, my attendant turns to groom me and I catch sight of something on
