As the frenzied coupling continues, and the quiet conversation unwinds like wet gossamer between the tangle of Anastasius and Mohini's bodies, another presence breathes into the thick air of the room.<br/><br/>Trickling through the glass comes the rustle of a low, insectile buzzing.  It travels up the spine on little bronze legs; soaks the heart in its froth and hovers in the darker quarters of the mind.  It fills the air with its busy invisibility.<br/><br/>It is distinctly the sound of bees.  It is low and inobtrusive; just the marrow of environment.  All the same, it soaks everything, swells everything by a degree as thin and tender as a wasp wine, honeys the atmosphere with its excitement.