Amber, dripping and oozing like the weeping blood of a Goddess's wound, flowed across Her tender breast. How deeply it sank into the soft umber of Her skin, mixing like brass and gold in a pot of copper. A smile, teeth glistering just as brightly as the shimmering flow of honey. Coy eyes, hidden behind silken wrappings. A ritual completed so infrequently and savored like the most cherished saffron.
Dew still clung to the wooden hives when the Maids began the honey harvest. Headmistress preferred it that way, and the Maids dutifully obeyed Her preference. Each Maid floated through the tall, cold grass like low-hanging fog. Silent, now, the buzzing gone; the bees were sleeping. Deft hands clad in silken gloves slipped into honey supers and extracted the long, narrow frames; rich, golden honey shone in the overcast morning sun. Light swam through it. Brittle diamonds of white light rained from each drop. Ending their admiration, the lids of the hives were returned, and as carefully as they had arrived, the Maids returned to the manor.
Each hive, bar one, was done the same. The Maids would spin, and then jar, the honey, boil the wax and slice apart comb. Lavender and cornflower hung heavy in the air as each Maid toiled in their matching silk and lace uniforms, humming and cooing wordlessly in their work for the Headmistress. They'd rotate the Maid tasked with bringing every harvest to the market, sending her along with a wagon full of jars, boxes, and candies.
They repeat for each and every hive - until it comes to the last, the hive that sits in the delicate ring of clovers. It's near the edge of the apiary, nestled in a grove of willows that sit heavy with dew in the early spring. Foxgloves sprung from the undergrowth as bees dart in and out of their hanging flowers, still heavy with morning dew yet to evaporate. Rarely checked, the bees are left to themselves at the hidden hive. Headmistress preferred it that way - their honey was more delicate.
It's late, now. A silk-dressed Maid approaches the hive, her dress hiked just above her ankles as to not drag it through the clovers. The sun sleepily sinks ever-lower beneath the foggy horizon, fiery form engulfed by the sea of evergreens that surround the Headmistress's manor. Silent, still; sleeping, again, but much later. A jolt of excitement shoots through her heart as a white glove strokes the painted, black hive. Sigils adorn the top, scrawled meticulously in white.
She opens the lid and takes hold of a heavy frame, laden so heavily with aromatic nectar. The bees abide, sleepily remaining within the wax capsules they called home. Goddess, the weight of it; Headmistress will be pleased by how much they've produced. Distant crickets beginning their evening choir tell the girl to hurry, now. In the windows of the manor behind her, beyond the willows and foxgloves, she can see the other Maids lighting the candles. Not much longer, now - they could be waiting on her.
A sapphic smile crawls across rose-tinted lips. She grips the frame tightly before gently brushing away the tired bees and carefully placing the lid back onto the hive, wishing the insects a gentle slumber, and bouncing back to the manor with ginger feet.
Every full moon they'd tap the hidden hive. Unlike the others, this honey wasn't to be sold or bottled. The colony that filled the hive was Headmistress's first, a direct lineage running the entire age of the Manor - at least as the Headmistress owned it - through to each and every drop of amber passion that filled the tiny wax hexagons.
This warm evening was to be the girl's first full moon at the manor. Headmistress thought it appropriate to bestow the duty of fetching the honey to her, welcoming her fully and finally to her little 'family business,' as it were, she always remarked with a smile. Perhaps, to another, the sudden responsibility would be daunting - but not her. Apiculture had been her life, her blood, the sweet and invisible lover that held her in ways no other could. To work under the Headmistress, to taste the honey the manor produced, was the greatest gift she could have received. Of course - of course - she would begin the full moon harvest. She couldn't imagine it any other way.
Cold air mixed with warm as the door to the manor flew open. Goosebumps covered the tender skin beneath the girl's flowing, white dress. A sigh fled her lips, the hardest part now over.
"Oh, goodness! There you are, cricket." said a short woman, similarly dressed, as she tended to a few loose jars of honey. "They're getting started upstairs - I'd not keep them, mm?"
The girl tilted her head curiously. "Aren't you coming?" she asked the other woman.
Tender lips curled themselves into a smile, the other woman clicking her tongue a bit. "Oh, I would, but there's still some work to be done, I'm afraid. So many jars left to fill, and..."
A nod. A smile. The girl approached the shorter woman and kissed her. A hand wrapped around her waist, pressing silk into leather. Silence, if but for an instant. Distant insects chirp beyond the evergreens. They break their kiss and stare, for a moment. Honey drips from the intricately-decorated frame. Sparks. Stars.
