Inside the Entrance Hall

Verne wasted no time.

He pointed one glove hand uphill and declared, “To the spire!”

Marra immediately snatched up her lantern, its flame still burning purple.

“Good,” she said. “Because if this gets any worse, the whole festival is done for.”

The calmer spellbees rose around Verne in a loose formation, humming like a tiny, unstable guard. The largest one still perched on the rim of his hat like a commander ready to lead an army.

And just like that, they were off, surging up the winding path toward the spire.

Verne was obviously in the lead, because he was a natural-born leader.

That was until Marra decided she wanted to be in front.

Then Verne started sprint-floating—sproating? flinting?

Oh. Never mind. I have been informed it was just called flying.

Lame.

Anyway, Verne easily overtook her by “flying” right up until his robe caught on a jagged rock.

Marra made absolutely sure to point and laugh.

They were having a bit of fun racing until, just before Verne was about to overtake her again—which he absolutely would have—another giant green light spilled from the upper windows. Arcane symbols flickered across the stone veins of the spire, and the air smelled of wax and singed flowers.

They stumbled toward the spire gate, a heavy iron entrance hanging open.

Marra technically reached it first, but only because Verne let her.

Beyond the gate lay a courtyard of cracked stone, dead vines, and overturned bee boxes. Normal bees and spellbees alike circled the broken hives in agitated clusters.

“The keeper of this courtyard has not done a very good job with this place,” Verne pointed out.

Then came a voice.

“You!”

They turned.

An old, long-bearded wizard was clinging to the wall while his layered robes dangled him from a bronze weather vane shaped like a moon. Below him, a swarm of spellbees clustered around the base of the vane, as if patiently waiting for him to fall.

“Tiny levitating cereal mascot! Help me!”

Verne stopped midair.

Marra winced.

Everything became very quiet.

Even the bees circling Verne seemed to understand the danger of those words.

The old wizard realized his mistake instantly.

“No, no, no, I meant small in a mystical sense!”

Verne drifted a little higher toward him, seething.

“You are horrible at cleaning up. You are stuck on a weather vane. And you still have the gall to call me a cereal mascot? Give me one reason I should not drop you to the bees.”

Before the wizard could answer, Marra cut in.

“Verne, maybe don’t kill him quite yet.”

The wizard pointed frantically toward the spire door.

“The queen hive is in the observatory! The stabilizer failed, the crown reacted, the bees got into the wild aether combs, and now everything is horribly, horribly alive!”

Another burst of green light flashed from an upper window.

The ground beneath them shuddered.

From deep inside the spire came a layered buzzing far larger than any single hive should have been able to make.

Marra gripped her knife after catching her balance.

“We have a problem.”

Verne’s glove hands curled into fists. He narrowed his eyes at the dangling wizard.

“Two things,” he said. “First, I am not tiny.”

The old wizard nodded frantically.

“Of course not.”

“Second,” Verne continued, raising one floating glove hand toward his hat, “I am about to perform something extremely impressive, so I expect gratitude in a tone appropriate for the occasion.”

Marra rolled her eyes.

“Whatever you are about to do, do it quickly.”

With that, Verne swept his hand toward his floating hat.

“HATRICULUS FETCHENSPROUT.”

The hat tipped upside down.

For one heartbeat, there was only darkness inside.

Then it began producing things.

First: a spoon.

Then: a live trout.

Then: a brass candlestick.

Then: an entire folded lace curtain.

Then, finally—

a ridiculously long green-and-black silk scarf, embroidered along the edge with tiny bees.

Verne grinned.

“There.”

Marra stared, not entirely convinced it had worked a second time.

“That is… sadly useful.”

“Obviously not sadly.”

He lashed the floating scarf upward with both glove hands. It whipped through the air like a serpent, looped once around the old wizard’s waist, twice around the weather vane, and tightened.

“Hold still!” Verne barked.

“I am trying very hard not to die right now!” the wizard cried.

With a sharp mental pull, Verne’s floating gloves yanked the scarf taut.

The old wizard slipped off the vane and plummeted a good few feet before the scarf caught him in a swaying sling.

He screamed the entire way down.

Then kept screaming for several seconds after he was safely caught.

The courtyard bees erupted at the sound.

“That’s not good,” Verne said.

“Thank you for your very important observation,” Marra replied.

Verne opened his mouth to answer, but the swarm surged upward toward the suspended wizard.

The wizard screamed again, even though his voice was already starting to give out.

“I have been saved into a far worse situation!”

“Ungrateful,” Verne muttered.

Marra pointed sharply.

“Verne!”

“No really?” Verne shot back, pleased to finally get one over on her, even if the situation did not remotely call for it.

The bees closed in fast.

One stung the scarf and turned part of it briefly to crystal.

Another zapped the weather vane, sending sparks down the bronze pole.

The old wizard twisted helplessly in midair, which almost made Verne not want to save him again because, frankly, it looked pretty funny.

Verne’s spellbees rose in a defensive formation, meeting the hostile swarm in a buzzing clash. The courtyard became a whirling storm of golden glow, green sparks, and bees.

Verne tried pulling on the scarf. The wizard drifted a little closer, but before he could make much progress, a wave of charged air blasted out through the spire doors.

The shockwave flattened flowers and sent loose stones skittering.

From within came a new sound:

a queen’s buzz.

Loud, low, and full of pain.

Every bee in the courtyard froze for one long, drawn-out moment.

Then every bee—including Verne’s—started toward the spire.

Marra went pale.

“She’s calling them.”

The old wizard swung toward Verne, still dangling in his scarf sling.

“If she fully awakens the crown’s resonance, the hive will merge with the spire! You will have a sentient bee spire!”

Verne stared at him.

“That is the worst sentence I have heard all week.”

The bees began pulling away from the fight and streaming toward the spire entrance in glowing ribbons.

The old wizard gasped.

“Name’s Alder Voss, by the way! Important later!”

Not especially important right now.

Verne’s eyes narrowed.

No more hesitation.

No more side problems.

No more dangling wizards making rude remarks about his perfectly respectable height.

He thrust both glove hands forward.

“Formation.”

His calmer spellbees responded at once. They rose out of their half-broken trance and clustered around him in a tight spiral. The large one on his hat gave a commanding buzz, and the others fell into place around his robes, hat, and glove hands like a tiny airborne honor guard.

Not perfect control like the cool powerful wizards have.

But enough for Verne’s sake.

He pointed toward the spire.

“BEELIGENTIA MARCHORUM.”

Marra blinked.

“That sounded fake even for you.”

“It was inspirational,” he snapped.

With one last tug, he guided the scarf-slung Alder closer to the ground. One glove hand caught the scarf and tied it off around a cracked stone post with completely necessary flair.

Alder swung there, alive, indignant, and temporarily secure.

“I object to being stored like laundry!” he shouted.

“Continue objecting,” Verne said, before surging toward the open spire.