GRAYSON put his hand over hres — the same way he always did, fingers covering hers, warm and unhurried.
Then he said, "Come with me."
She looked at him. "Where."
"The south field." He stood, still holding her hand. "Before Carson gets there and makes Arthur regret his tolerance."
She let him pull her up.
The south field in November was a different thing from the lavender courtyard. Less curated, more honest — the grass long in places, the treeline at the far edge holding the last of its autumn color, the sky the particular grey of a day that wasn't committing to anything.
Arthur's hives stood along the south wall in their careful formation, twelve of them, each one doing whatever hives did in the cold months, which Arthur had once explained at some length and which Grayson had apparently filed in full.
Arthur was checking the third hive from the left when they arrived. He looked up. He looked at Grayson. He looked at Mailah.
"You came before the other one," he said.
