Before
The green sepals cupping the rosebud unwound in a slow pirouette, leaving behind a splash of petals in Eva’s palm. I watched the display of slow and gentle magic from nearby, a smoker dangling from my fingertips.
The perceived smell of fire had driven the bees to gorge on their stores, and a swarm of them, now drunk on their own honey, buzzed overhead. Despite what their hardwired panic would have them believe, the smoke was no disaster. Honeybees had a tireless work ethic, collecting nectar from dawn to dusk to be converted into honey and sealed in wax back at the hive. But sometimes they brought too much. An overabundance of nectar-producing flowers in the forest—the honey flow,Jack called it—had overwhelmed this apiary. It was our job as beekeepers to give them more real estate.
Eva tipped her head up, as though daring the sun to gift her more freckles. Across the yard, Jack set down a stack of supers. The shallow boxes contained the frames on which the bees stored their excess honey. Adding more supers reduced the chances of the hives swarming and splitting in two.
“It’s too hot today,” Eva complained, wiping a bead of sweat off her temple. “Let’s swim.”
“Sure.” I swatted absentmindedly at what I thought was a fly until it stung my jaw, making me yelp.
Both Moreaus looked up. After a quick assessment, Jack nodded to his youngest daughter. “First sting is a rite of passage. Take him inside and show him what to do.”
Eva perked up and flounced my way, tugging my sleeve. “Come on.”
My jaw throbbed as we walked back up the hill to the cottage. “Another angry brood cycle?” I asked.
“What?”
“That’s what you told Lenny after he was stung, right?” Despite my early hesitation, the beekeepers’ sun-soaked world had woken my curiosity over the last few weeks. I was hungry to learn.
Eva’s face turned pink. “I did tell him that,” she said slowly. “I also told him to put vinegar on the sting.”
“Are we not doing that?”
She laughed. “Not unless you want it to burn worse than it does now.” She scooped up Hyssop—a recent rescue from a cat shelter, I’d learned—and brought her inside, filling the kitten’s water bowl before the two of us unzipped our bee suits down to the waist, letting the arms dangle so we could cool down.
I pinched my T-shirt at the sternum and fanned in a bit of air. Heat aside, I liked the bee suit. It felt like armor. For the first time in a long time, I felt content.
Eva nodded to a chair. “Sit.”
More than content.
I sank obediently onto the curved, stained wood, worn soft from decades of use.
Glass rattled as she dug through her cupboard, searching among her jars of herbs. The bee suit swung low over her hips, sleeves flopping against rainbow socks and grass-stained shoes.
This was our game. I watched her, and she watched me. We’d been playing it for weeks, trading glances like playing cards, theunspokenbreathing down our necks like a creature ready to swallow us whole if we didn’t give it voice. I knew it wasn’t just me. Eva’s freckles connected when she blushed, and she played with her braid when she was nervous. Best of all, her magic betrayed her, her emotions pulling flora to the soil’s reef. Once, I had caught her staring at my hands, wildflowers sprouting in the grass at her feet.
“How’s the swelling?”
I felt like someone had taken a match to my skin. “Fine.”
“Liar.” I could hear the smile in her voice as she plucked a jar between her fingertips. “Aha!” When she turned, my eyes snapped to her face. “Calendula!” Then she closed the distance between us and stepped between my knees, eyes bright as an afternoon sky. Eva unscrewed the cap to the little tin and swirled her finger in the yellow mixture. When she reached for me, I leaned away.
“What are you doing?”
Eva paused. “I have to apply this.”
“I can do that.”
“I know.” Eva’s voice colored with sudden embarrassment. “But I… want to.”
The air between us thinned. For weeks, we’d danced around the no-touching rule. The bee suit’s heavy cotton let me pretend I could be close to her, but it was all a facade. Eva Moreau couldn’t really touch me, though she walked the line. Tugging my elbow. Bumping my hip. “Ev,” I strained. “You can’t do that.”
“Maybe I can.” When she stepped closer, the smell of coconut shampoo and fresh-cut grass filtered through my nose. Her eyes sparked as she gingerly traced her fingertips down the back of my glove. Even through the waffle knit, goose bumps rose on my arms. “I bring dead things back to life all the time.”
“I’m not dead, bee girl.” But she could be if I let her touch me. I was no flower; I was flesh and bone and, currently, a lot of rushing blood.
