It happens so quickly that, at first, Solma doesn’t understand. She’s still watching the bee when it spasms. It gives a last, frantic buzz, and its body tips to one side, legs curled beneath it. She stares, waiting for it to sort itself out. It doesn’t. Huddled around Solma’s outstretched palm, the others exchange sad glances. Solma knows what they’re thinking, but they must be wrong. The bee can’t be dead. With one, shaking fingertip, she prods it gently. No response.
She’s not sure why the tears come, but they do.
“No!” she chokes. “No! You can’t—”
Several arms wrap around her. Olive on one side, Bell on the other, Cobra behind her, rubbing her back. Small hands—probably Taipan’s—scoop the dead bee from her palm so that she can weep into someone’s shoulder.
“Warren,” she gasps. She
