Frost feathers the edges of the gum trees, silvering the bark in the blue-grey light of a Tasmanian dawn. Tess Maracoorte keeps the stock of the .22 pressed firm against her shoulder, the barrel steady on the man standing at her eastern perimeter. He doesn't move like a trespasser; he stands with a stillness that belongs to the timber itself, his tan oilskin coat catching the first weak rays of the sun. The bees are already waking, a low copper hum rising from the white-painted Langstroth boxes behind her.
'Put the gun down, Tess Maracoorte,' the stranger says, his voice a dry rasp that carries perfectly through the cold air. 'I need to speak to your queens.' Tess doesn't lower the sight. He hasn't moved a muscle, yet the air between them feels suddenly heavy, thick with the scent of crushed eucalyptus and something wilder, like woodsmoke and old fur. He knows her name, and he speaks of her hives as if they are a royal court he has visited before. Her grandfather’s leatherwood lineage notes are a heavy weight in her belt, a secret she thought she alone possessed.
A low, guttural vibration starts in the stranger's chest as he takes a slow step toward the barrel of her rifle.
