Steal from the flowers. Give to the hive.
She is not a monarch. She is an ovary with legs, fed and groomed by workers who will replace her the moment she underperforms.
A colony decides when to swarm, where to move, which flower patch to work, and whether the queen keeps her job. Every one of those choices is made by tens of thousands of bees with no chain of command, no vote count, and nobody able to override the result. Thomas Seeley spent thirty years proving it. A hive is not a kingdom. It is a quorum that happens to make honey.
A forager comes home, climbs onto a vertical sheet of comb in total darkness, and runs a straight line while shaking her abdomen thirteen times a second. Then she loops back and does it again, alternating left and right, tracing a figure eight on the comb.
The straight run is the message. Straight up means fly toward the sun. Forty degrees right of vertical means forty degrees right of the sun. The run gets longer the further the food is, at roughly one second of waggling per kilometre. She corrects the angle as the sun moves across the sky, from inside a pitch-black box, using a clock she carries in her head.
The bees crowded around her cannot see any of this. They read it by touch and by the sound of her wings. Then they fly out and find the patch on the first attempt.
A hive is a working economy with no treasury department. It has been running the same model, unchanged, for roughly a hundred million years.
Roughly one hive in three does not survive the winter. This section is the head-butt.