Virtual Bookshop Tour: Exclusive Extract from Honeycomb by Joanne Harris

We're delighted to be sharing an exclusive extract from Honeycomb by Joanne Harris as the fourth stop on the Honeycomb Virtual Bookshop Tour to mark its publication. Read on for the story and to order a signed bookplate edition!

The Lacewing King and the Spider Queen When the Lacewing King was a boy, he liked to escape into the woods. There, he would swim in the quiet streams, or swing in the canopy of the trees, or run for miles with the forest deer, far away from his underground realm and from his royal duties. 

One day, when he was still only half-grown, he came to a wall, deep in the woods. The wall was brick and very high, overgrown with vivid moss that fell in great, green, velvety swags all along the perimeter. 

The Lacewing King was curious. He followed the wall through the undergrowth, and soon uncovered a wrought-iron gate, almost as high as the wall itself, faded rust-red with the years, its scrolls and florets of metal grown as fine and brittle as autumn leaves. 

The young King tried the gate, which was locked. But through the bars he found himself looking into a garden—or at least, what was left of one—now grown monstrous with the years, with peonies and hollyhocks and roses tall as houses, with thick and thorny branches and heads like those of shaggy sea monsters rising from the greenery. 

This was the lair of the Spider Queen, who lived with her three daughters in the heart of the forest. She was old—and cunning—and her home was a silken pavilion under a canopy of leaves, 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 arrival at her gate had not quite been an accident; he had heard tell of her powers and longed to know more about them. 

Over three days he had noticed that, although she often changed her clothes, the Spider Queen never took off her coronet of a thousand eyes. It gleamed upon her ice-white hair; blinking in all directions. This was the source of her magic, he knew. This was how she had seen him approach; how she had watched him from afar. A plan began to form in his mind. It was a very wicked plan, as well as being cruel and dangerous; which, of course, to the Lace wing King, made it all the more amusing. 

And so on the night of the third day, the young King asked for the Spider Queen’s hand. The Queen accepted graciously, but warned him to be cautious. 

“You are still young, Your Majesty,” she said with a look of tender concern. “Your Chancellor will try to advise you against making a rash decision.” 

The Lacewing King took her hand. “We can marry in secret,” he said. “Then no one will interfere.” 

The Spider Queen was very pleased. She stood in front of her mirror and combed her long white hair and smiled, and thought of how much more power she would have when she devoured the young King on the night of their wedding. She decided that the ceremony would take place in nine days and nine nights. That would give her time to prepare herself and her folk for the happy event. 

Over those nine days, the King went back to his underground citadel. He told no one of his plans, but read his books and rode his horse and went about his duties in such a good, obedient way that the Glow-Worm Chancellor was moved to comment that His young Majesty should be away from home more often, and that his travels had sobered him. 

Meanwhile, the Lacewing King had no intention of marrying. His plan was to steal the Spider Queen’s crown, which gave her the power to know and see everything in the kingdom. All he needed to do was wait until the Queen took off the crown—and then to hide his crime until he had managed to make his escape. 

First, he went to his mother, the Honeycomb Queen, who lived among her beehives in the heart of the forest. He asked her for a swarm of bees, which she granted him willingly. The Honeycomb Queen knew her son and suspected he was up to some mischief; but she knew the bees would keep him safe and allow her to watch over him. And so the King went back to his court wearing a coat of golden bees; bees that would do his bidding and were sworn to his protection. 

Eight days had passed since his return. On the eve of the ninth day, which was the eve of his wedding, the young King returned to the Spider Queen, wearing his coat of living bees. The Spider Queen welcomed him with delight, already tasting his flesh with her eyes. 

That night, he said to the bees, “Tonight, fly to the lair of the Spider Queen and find her crown of a thousand eyes. When she is sleeping, take out those eyes and quickly bring them here to me. But for every eye you have stolen, take care to leave a bee in its place, so that the Queen does not notice that her crown has been plundered. Now, be careful—and be quick—the Queen only sleeps a few hours a night, and even then, not deeply.” 

And so the bees flew out to do the bidding of the Lacewing King. They flew to the Spider Queen’s chamber, where she slept under a canopy of silk. Swarming over her coronet, they brought a hundred eyes to the King, and left a hundred bees in their place, winking, silent and alert. 

The Spider Queen shifted in her sleep. She opened twelve eyes  and looked around. But the missing eyes in her coronet had been filled with winking bees, and she did not notice the trickery. Meanwhile, the bees in her coronet began to hum a little song: “Long ago, and far away, Far away and long ago. The Worlds are honeycomb, you know; The Worlds are honeycomb.” The song of the bees was so comforting that the Spider Queen fell asleep again. While she was sleeping, the bees returned, and took another hundred eyes, leaving a hundred bees in their place. Once more, the Queen stirred in her sleep; once more, the bees sang her to sleep. “Long ago, and far away, Far away and long ago. The Worlds are honeycomb, you know; The Worlds are honeycomb.” Throughout the night, the swarm of bees worked to plunder the Spider Queen’s crown, and the Lacewing King stayed watchful as they stitched the eyes into his coat with skeins of silk and beeswax. By dawn, he had nine hundred eyes winking from his coat of bees, and only a hundred eyes remained before the King could make his escape. 

In the Spider Queen’s chamber, a hundred bees prepared to take flight with the last of their plunder. In the ransacked coronet, a thousand honeybees nestled and winked. But, just at that moment, the Spider Queen stirred. One eye fluttered open, and she saw a bee crawling over her pillow. Once more, the bees began their song: “Long ago, and far away, Far away and long ago—” But it was too late. The Queen was awake. She reached for her coronet of eyes and saw that it was filled with bees. “What is this?” said the Spider Queen. “Treachery, treason, thievery, theft! ” 

The bees in the coronet winked at her, then started to rise into the air. The sound of their wings was a murmur at first, then a hissing, then a roar. The Queen put on her coronet and tried to see beyond her lair. But her vision was darkened and blurred, and she knew that she was blind. 

Seizing the delicate threads of her web, she sought the thief in the heart of her realm—and blindly, through her fingers, she sensed the young King in his hammock of silk, wearing a coat of nine hundred eyes. 

The Queen gave a howl of outrage. The honeybees rose like a column of smoke. The young King saw the column and knew that his ruse had been discovered. Jumping from his hammock, he threw on his thistledown moths’-wing cloak and fled through the overgrown garden towards the wall and the rust-red gate. 

The Queen ran into the heart of her web, hoping to cut off the young King’s escape; but without her crown of a thousand eyes, she was unable to see her prey. She ordered her spider retinue to take the King and bind him—but with his new-found vision, the King could see the danger approaching; and reaching the gate of the Spider Queen’s lair, he quickly climbed to safety and escaped with his stolen treasure. 

The Spider Queen sensed his escape through her web. She looked out of her window. Below, in the courtyard of her lair, the preparations were underway for a wedding she now knew would never take place. Nine days of preparations; of kitchens filled with roasted caterpillars stuffed with ants; of damselfly comfits and greenfly jellies and woodlice fried in their jackets. Nine days it had taken her daughters to make the wedding dress with its jewelled train, so long that ten thousand spiders had had to be stitched into the hem, to ensure its elegant drape and to keep the delicate lace from touching the ground. The veil was spun from moonlight and air; the petticoat from blue butterflies’ wings; the gown from finest thistledown gauze, stitched with living lacewings. 

The Spider Queen, in her nightgown, stood in front of her mirror and looked at her reflection. Her face was very pale beneath the eyeless, empty coronet—and yet, at that moment she seemed to see more clearly than she had in days. 

She summoned her three daughters and ordered them to clear her lair of every servant, every cook, every courtier and cleaner and squab. “I want to be alone,” she said. 

And then she put on her wedding dress and once more looked at herself in the mirror, and saw how foolish she had been, and how the King had duped her. Now she could see him in her mind’s eye, sitting in his library, wearing his golden coat of bees. And stitched all over that coat were the eyes from the Spider Queen’s coronet; a thousand eyes, bright and alert, gleaming in the lamplight. 

And right there, she promised herself that one day, she would have her revenge on him. She would make him pay in full for all that he had done to her. She would see him humiliated and broken into pieces. She would find what was precious to him and take it away, whatever it was. 

Then she lay on her marriage bed under her canopy of silk and started to spin herself a cocoon. She used her train and wedding veil, stitching their folds around her. Before long, there was nothing left of her but a bundle of jewelled gauze, and moths’-wing fur, and thistledown. 

And when it was finished she went to sleep, and dreamed dark dreams of vengeance.