Bartholomew's Scheme

Bartholomew, a bee whose wings shimmered with an almost offensive sheen of self-importance, twitched a feeler. Barnaby, that blundering buffoon, had been acting even more peculiar than usual. And Bartholomew’s definition of “peculiar” for Barnaby was a vast, sprawling landscape of bizarre behavior, punctuated by the occasional explosive sneeze. This new peculiarity, however, felt different. It wasn’t the usual accidental pollen-bombing of a royal decree or the unintentional redecoration of the honeycomb with sticky, sneeze-propelled goo. This was… furtive.

He’d seen Barnaby whispering with Elder Bee Elara, his antennae practically vibrating with an intensity Bartholomew hadn't witnessed since he’d successfully convinced the hive that Queen Beatrice’s favorite bloom was, in fact, a rare delicacy that tasted suspiciously like burnt sugar. Elara, with her ancient, wise eyes, had looked… intrigued. And Bartholomew hated intrigue that didn't involve him.

"He's up to something," Bartholomew muttered to himself, his voice a low, smug hum. He adjusted the tiny, almost invisible, speck of glitter he’d strategically placed on his own thorax, a subtle reminder to the universe of his own dazzling presence. "Something that involves that old biddy and probably more pollen than he can handle. And if there’s nectar to be had, *I* should be the one to have it. Not him. Not the sneeze-machine."