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

shrouded with gossamer curtains and guarded by legions of spider guards. The Spider Queen never left her lair, and yet she knew everything that went on in the forest. Through the skeins of her web, she could sense the approach of a greenfly over half a mile away; her coronet of a thousand eyes could see in all directions at once. And now she saw the young King looking through the rust-red gate, and felt her heart beat faster. She knew exactly who he was, and for years she had watched him from afar, coveting his youth and strength, and longing for him to come closer.

It had been a long, long time since a son had been born to the Silken Folk. Most of the royal children were Queens, powerful in their own right, but a new King was rare and exceptional. All the Queens deferred to him—and the one he chose to be his Queen would stand alongside him in glory. And so the Spider Queen called her three daughters to her, and ordered them to prepare themselves for a royal visit.

Then she dressed in her finest clothes, her train of silver spider-gauze and her cloak of dewdrops, and gathered up her retinue, and came to meet the young King in a carriage made from a silken cocoon, drawn by a dozen white spiders with ruby eyes and legs of spun glass.

The young King watched through the bars of the gate. He’d heard about the Spider Queen; her secrecy; her appetites. He knew that she was as dangerous as she was clever and powerful. But he was not at all afraid. In fact, he had a plan of his own. He climbed up onto the rust-red gate and jumped down into the garden.

The Queen stepped down from her carriage and curtseyed deeply to the King. “What an honour this is,” she said, “to receive a visit from Your young Majesty. I am only a poor widow, but please, I beg of you—allow me to extend what little hospitality I can.”

The young King smiled. “Of course,” he said, and stepped into her carriage. It took him back to the Spider Queen’s lair, where a lavish banquet awaited. Pomegranates and persimmons; dragonfly candies and cockroach claws; and wines of every colour, from lemon-yellow to berry-black. The young King sat on cushions of silk in a hammock of spider-gauze, and ate, and drank, while choruses of captive cicadas sang to him in voices sweet as honeycomb.

“And now for something special,” said the Spider Queen in her whispery voice. And, raising her hand, she summoned her three daughters, now clad in their most diaphanous silks, and ordered them to display their skills for their guest’s entertainment.

The three princesses were all beautiful, graceful, and accomplished. Their dancing was exquisite; so was their embroidery. One spun the King a handkerchief of such an intricate design that a seamstress of the Folk might have spent her whole life making just the border. Another sewed him a moths’-wing cloak so delicate that it could hardly be seen, but that kept off even the hardest rain, gleaming with fugitive raindrops. The third made him a pair of gloves as fine as dragonfly leather, but as strong as steel and as flexible as his own, unblemished skin.

Next, the princesses danced for him on cords of twisted spider-silk, then made their curtsey to the King, eyes lowered; hands outstretched.

The Spider Queen watched intently. She felt sure that such beauty and grace would not fail to seduce the young King. And yet, he acknowledged the three princesses with no more than common courtesy, turning back to the Spider Queen as soon as etiquette allowed. The Queen, who was vain in spite of her years, felt absurdly flattered. She smiled and offered the King more wine.

“And what do you think of my daughters?” she said.

“My compliments,” he told her. “I can see where they took their charm.”

The Spider Queen hid her surprise. “What a flatterer you are. I’m old enough to be your mother.” (In fact, she was old enough to be his great-grandmother, but saw no need to tell him that.) “A poor widow like myself must learn to put vanity aside and leave that kind of thing to the young.”

The Lacewing King gave a little smile. “I much prefer the elegance of experience,” he said. “Shall we dance, my lady?”

The Queen took a cockroach cluster and ate it, slowly and reflectively. She wasn’t hungry, but pretending to eat gave her time to sit and think. Could it be that the boy admired her? Of course, she had intended his throne for one of her three daughters, but could it be that her seasoned charm was more attractive to the King than mere youth and freshness?

Perhaps it was, she told herself. Perhaps she had misread the signs. And so she dismissed her daughters and most of her spider retinue, and set to seducing the young King herself. She danced for him on a silken rope; she spun him elaborate tapestries. She fed him fruits and candies and played to him on a spider-glass harp all hung with shining dewdrops. For three whole days, she wooed him; changing her outfits ten times a day; displaying every charm, every skill with clever, counterfeit modesty.

At night, the King slept in a hammock of silk and arose to the song of cicadas, while tiny, multicoloured spiders stitched him into his day clothes. Throughout the day, the Spider Queen worked hard to ensnare him, feeling increasingly certain that he would soon succumb to her charms.

But the Lacewing King was no fool. He knew the Queen’s history very well. He knew her ambition; her vanity. He knew she’d been widowed sixteen times due to her ancient custom of eating her new husband on the night of the wedding. This was how the Spider Queen had gained much of her power; and this was why the Lacewing King had come to her lair in search of her. His