Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

village. But as he watched from the shadows, he suddenly sensed that he was not alone. He turned and saw a little girl, no more than nine or ten years old. She was barefoot; her dress was too short; her eyes were bright and curious. And around her neck, on a piece of thread, was a string of blue beads and feathers.

Above them in the canopy, the honeybees were restless, rising and falling among the leaves and humming a little song:

“The heart is like a honeycomb,

A honeycomb, a honeycomb.

The heart is like a honeycomb,

And love will make you blind.”

But the Lacewing King was not listening. “You can see me?” he said to the girl. Of course, he was used to going unseen—except when he chose otherwise.

“Of course I can,” said the little girl. “My grandmother told me to keep watch.”

“Your grandmother?” said the Lacewing King.

“Yes. She needs me to help. She’s blind.”

The Lacewing King looked at the child, feeling vaguely uneasy. There was something strange about her, something he almost recognized. Was it her eyes, that seemed hardly to blink as they watched him so directly? Was it her curiosity, the fearless way she spoke to him? The Lacewing King was used to being feared and hated by the Sightless Folk. Why was this girl different? And why was she so familiar?

Above him, in the tree canopy, the hum of the bees grew louder.

But the King had no time for them. Suddenly, he had realized that he knew the village. He had been there, long ago—almost long enough ago to forget a girl who had loved him. Surely, she must be dead by now. The lives of the Folk were so brittle, so brief. But had it really been so long?

“Take me to see her,” said the King, and followed the girl through the forest to a tiny cottage hidden away under a mountain of bracken. Inside, in a rocking-chair, he saw a woman, old and grey. There was no lamp in the cottage, but by the light of the moon, the King saw that she had no eyelids; only a scribble of scar tissue over her dead and sightless eyes.

“Who’s there with you, child?” she said.

“A traveller,” said the Lacewing King.

“Come in,” said the blind woman. “Though we don’t have much to offer you.”

Outside the cottage, the honeybees sang:

“The heart is like a honeycomb,

A honeycomb, a honeycomb.

The heart is like a honeycomb,

And love will make you blind.”

But once again, the Lacewing King ignored them, and went inside. The door of the cottage closed behind him, cutting off the sound of the swarm. The child lit a single candle. The King found himself in a tiny room with only one window, a table, a stool, and the old woman’s rocking-chair by the hearth.

“Sit down,” said the crone. “It’s been a while.”

“Do you know me?” said the King.

The old woman said, “How could I forget? I hear you every night, in dreams. I see your face in memory. I even cut off my eyelids for you, hoping I could see you again.”

The Lacewing King sighed. “So it is you,” he said. “I had no idea it had been so long.”

“A lifetime,” said the woman. “At least, a lifetime for such as I. For you, no more than a season’s growth, a single ring in the trunk of a tree destined to stand for a thousand years.”

“And the child?” said the Lacewing King.

The old woman rocked to and fro in her chair. “My daughter died too young,” she said. “The girl you see is your grandchild, cursed with your blood and your powers. All these years I waited, hoping you would come for me. But now all I want is to die in peace, and never hear your voice again.”

According to legend, the Lacewing King never feels remorse or regret. His cruelty is the one thing upon which all the storytellers agree. But this time, something was different. He felt a terrible pain in his heart. The bees had tried to warn him—and now, he had fallen into a trap as cruel as any he had devised.

For a moment, the Lacewing King found himself unable to speak. In all his time, he had never felt pain as visceral as this. He had no idea what it was; all he knew was that it was unbearable. And as he realized that the child for whom he had longed so badly had been within reach all the time; and that, through his wickedness and neglect, she had died in misery, he was overwhelmed with shame, and fell to his knees on the ground, and wept.

The old woman did nothing to stop him. She simply rocked herself in her chair, her dead eyes like those of a painted doll. “Don’t think tears will redeem you,” she said. “Forgiveness comes at a higher cost.”

The Lacewing King looked up. “How much?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want your gold.”

“Then what do you want?” said the Lacewing King.

The old woman held out a hand as papery as a wasp’s nest. “I want you to take the child,” she said.

“You want me to—what?” said the Lacewing King.

“I love her dearly,” said the crone. “But she is a child of your people, your blood. I want you to take her to where she belongs. I want you to be a father to her. I want you to love her, care for her, as you never loved your daughter.”

The King looked at the little girl. She was no beauty, certainly. And yet, there was something that set her apart from the children of the Folk. Maybe her unblinking eyes; or her hair, the shade of a moth’s wing. In any case, there was no doubt in his mind that the old woman was telling the truth. The girl was his grandchild; the daughter of a daughter he had never seen; whose eyes had never been treated with the nectar of the flower of dreams—

“Is this