“Dr. Norwood does. Gray Delacroix collects all types of vanilla orchids, but he keeps them under lock and key, which is stoking Dr. Norwood’s curiosity. You may as well give up. I think that original orchid went extinct long ago. No more dawdling. Get that crate unpacked.”

Annabelle nodded and reached for another cluster of grass from Australia. Most of the grasses she cataloged looked similar to what they had in America, but tiny differences in a plant’s biology could alter its flavor, fragrance, or hardiness. Indeed, those tiny differences were causing her family’s wheat farm to fail after years of drought. Her parents had gone into debt to buy her train ticket to Washington, and she couldn’t afford to lose this job.

Which was why she waited with pained anticipation for Mr. Delacroix’s response to her second letter. It arrived the following morning, and Mr. Bittles snatched it out of the delivery boy’s hand before she could intercept it.

“That’s my letter,” she gasped, trying to grab it from Mr. Bittles as he dangled it well above her head. Sometimes it was horrible being short. She made a leap for it, and Mr. Bittles stifled a giggle as he continued waving it just beyond her reach.

“But it’s addressed to the Botanical Department, of which I am the supervisor,” he said, yanking the single page from the envelope. Frustration nearly choked her as his eyes traveled along the lines of the letter. He shook his head in mock despair. “Such a pity,” he murmured.

“What does it say?”

A smile hovered over his face as he read the letter aloud. “‘Dear Miss Larkin. Under no circumstances will I grant you access to my plant collection. Stop asking. Sincerely, Gray Delacroix.’” He didn’t hide his gloat as he gave her the letter.

She turned away to read it, praying Mr. Bittles was only being cruel, but it was exactly as he had said. She masked her discouragement as she tucked the letter into her satchel, for she wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“I’m going downstairs to tell Dr. Norwood of this latest development,” she said. “It’s time to shift strategy.”

“Best of luck,” Mr. Bittles said with a sarcastic wink.

That wink renewed her determination as she headed to the director’s office. Mr. Bittles had been rude and bad-tempered from the very beginning, but bad tempers didn’t frighten her. She had come of age on the plains of Kansas, where she’d battled ice storms, wind storms, crippling droughts, and plagues of locusts that literally darkened the wide prairie skies. There weren’t many things she feared, but losing her job at the Smithsonian was one of them.