The bees' solemn procession across pillow and cheek had been silent, their wings folded and still; when they crept back out over the sash they had disappeared as if not flying but falling into the darkness.  Their feet had pricked, Mel remembered, and their fur had tickled as they worked their way through lips, teeth, and tongue.  They had smelled of barley and clover and a dark musk that made Mel think of Travelers’ wagons on market day.

The next noise I knew quite well; a sword drawn through a belt-ring. And there stood a small man, lost in a vast feathered cloak-and-cowl with a great ash-roc plume curling up from a thick combed headband, pointing a long needle of steel at me, his arm shod in small quills like an ant-hunter. I swear I heard a tinny, whistling call as my eyes took him in.