Activity stilled throughout the complex: the waxworks, the launching pads, the processing stations, even the high-flying scouts were grounded. The younger workers joked. “A holiday!” they cried, laughing.
The old hands tapped their legs disapprovingly. “A holy day,” they murmured.
Down in the darkness, amid the hexagonal cells and walls that dripped golden sweet, the Dance began. Age and youth; wisdom and strength; waning and waxing; there was, in the end, only one possible outcome. Strongest of her sisters, she emerged, battered, triumphant, in the Great Hall.
“The Queen is dead,” she piped.
“Long live the Queen!” the hive chorused.
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