I could see stars there. Bright points in the darkness. But no sun rising. No waking yet.

I let his eye close.

I waited, watching him for the smallest movement.

But he didn’t move again.

“Daddy,” I said, close by his ear.

Nothing at all.

I said his name one more time, kissed him on the other cheek, watched for his eyes to move. And then I climbed back out the window with much more work to do.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Down-mountain, at the hive where—just that morning—I’d meant to harvest honey for my brew, I reached into my pocket for my knife and flint, only to find the carved bee waiting for me.

I’d forgotten all about it.

Which astonished me, since every other carving had led me into endless curiosity and speculation and happiness . . . and made me grateful for the gift. Now I spent a long moment with the little bee, amazed at how fine it was, how perfect.

And this time I thanked the bee itself.

And all the other bees whose honey I had come to take.

I put the bee back in my pocket and opened my collecting jar. Put the lid in my pocket. Set my work gloves on a rock next to the trail.

Then I made another fire to stun the bees again, though it slowed me down. Time was short now, the day hurrying toward its end, but I knew the pain of even one sting and wanted nothing to do with a hundred.

I chose a good stick and laid it in the flames. Then I buttoned myself as much as I could, tucking my pants into my boots, my collar high around my ears.

But the morning’s bee sting was still fresh on my mind, and I decided to do more, this time, to keep from being stung again.

When the stick was flaming well, I emptied my pack at the side of the trail and took a long look at the oak where the hive was waiting. Memorized the way to it through the undergrowth. Then I laid the torch on the path where it would slowly give up its flame and pulled the pack over my head, tucking the edges of it into my collar and buttoning my jacket up tight to hold the makeshift hood in place.

I felt for my gloves, pulled them on, pushed my sleeves down into them, felt for my collecting jar, carefully picked up the cold end of the smoky torch, and took a long breath.

Blind, my feet feeling the way, I navigated by sound, too. By the buzzing that came from the hive.

I knew the tree by its roots underfoot. Felt my way to its broad trunk. Took a breath. Closed my eyes for no good reason. And ran my hand along the bark until I felt the big hole where the bees were waiting.

I hated to take what was theirs.