Page 34 of Under a Dancing Star

“Right,” I say, distracted by another ant. It occurs to me then that we have a more pressing problem. “Actually, Ben—”

“No, Bea,” he says, holding up a hand to stop me. “I know you think you can handle this like any of your other experiments, but in this instance, you have to admit that I know a little more than you…”

“Fine. But the thing is, Ben—” I try again, flicking my hand as yet another ant buzzes in front of my face.

“Bea,” he exclaims, “if you’re going to keep interrupting me then how am I supposed to concentrate? You’re the one who said you wanted romantic gestures and I’ve actually got several ideas.” He takes out a slim volume. “I thought perhaps some poetry,” he says. “I know you said it was a waste of time, but this – well, this will change your mind.”

I look up at the sky while he begins to read aloud from the book. Several crows wheel high above us, snapping at the air. I debate whether or not to try and point this out to him, but decide instead to simply sit back and let events unfold as they may.

“But thy eternal summer…” Ben breaks off, batting at his face.

“Yes?” I ask mildly.

“Thy eternal summer…” Ben tries again and stops, his hand flicking near his ear. “Oh, buzz off, you bloody things,” he mutters as several more insects join the first. “What the hell is going on?”

“Well,” I say. “As I was trying to tell you, I believe we might have disturbed a nest of Lasius niger during their nuptial flight.”

Ben looks at me as though I have sprouted an extra head.

“And in English, please?”

“Flying ants,” I reply.

“Of course,” he grumbles, snatching up the remains of the picnic and stuffing them hastily back in the basket as the cloud of ants grows in the sky overhead. “Try and take you anywhere and suddenly it’s swarms of flying locusts.”

“Locusts?” I chuckle, folding the blanket. “Oh, Ben, you really couldn’t be more wrong. A locust is part of the order of Orthoptera, while an ant belongs to the order of Hymenoptera along with wasps and bees.”

“Very interesting,” Ben says frostily.

“It is actually.” I pause to observe the ant that has just landed on the back of my hand. “The nuptial flight is when the young queens all leave the nest to strike out on their own and start new colonies. They mate with the smaller male ants in the air.” I look up at the throng. “The male ants live for just a day or two after the flight – their only job is to mate with the new queens.” I smile at him. “As with so much of nature it all comes down to sex.”

Ben grabs my hand, dragging me away from the swarm, and in the direction of the villa.

“Maybe we should stay and watch,” I say. “It only happens one day a year.”

“Being attacked by a hoard of Hymenopteras was not high on my list of romantic activities,” he grumbles.

“You are using that word wrong,” I point out.

“This experiment is going to be a disaster if you won’t take it seriously,” Ben says crossly. “You’ve got the romantic soul of a … a … plank.”

“That is very unfair!” We are a safe distance from the ants and I pull my arm out of his grip. “And,” I add, “if you think that poetry is going to work on me then you’re wrong. Why were you waving your arms around like that?”

“It’s called emotion,” Ben says, giving me a dark look. “It’s usually something that women appreciate.”

By the time we arrive back at the villa we have settled into silence. We are greeted on the terrace by Filomena and Hero.

“Ah,” Filomena exclaims. “There you are! Your uncle was looking for you, Bea. I’m afraid he has had to go to Milan for a short time on business. He wanted to say goodbye, but we couldn’t find you.”

Although we haven’t been doing anything wrong, I notice with interest that Ben flushes a little at this.

“We went for a picnic,” I say, at the same time that Ben says, “We were having an art lesson.”

Filomena’s amused glance takes in both of us. “I see.”

“At least you managed to avoid getting covered in paint this time, Bea,” Hero says. “You must be improving. Not a speck of paint anywhere, in fact.”

There’s a pause.