While the outside of the Department of Agriculture projected stately grandeur, the interior took her breath away. The vestibule was decorated by a hand-painted fresco of twining, leafy-green vines that stretched up and over the coffered ceiling. Vibrant panels of American landscapes during all four seasons covered the walls. The hallways were embellished with friezes of carved birch, black walnut, and mountain ash, a celebration of the American woodlands, and Annabelle felt ridiculously proud to know she now belonged here.

The main floor was for display, but the second floor was primarily laboratories for chemists and horticulturalists. Other floors contained the agricultural library, a museum, and an office for the statisticians. The biggest surprise was in the basement, where sixty employees worked at long tables, preparing free packets of seeds for distribution to the farms and kitchen gardens of America.

“We send more than a million packets of seeds all over the United States,” Horace said with pride. “Bulbs, vines, legumes, you name it. If we can wrap it in Sphagnum moss or put it in an envelope, we will ship it.”

After touring the basement, Horace led her into a stairwell to climb to the top floor, where their laboratory was located. “Now,” he said amiably, “tell me how you got this position. We only learned this morning that we were to make space for you.”

She opened her mouth, but how could she say this was a payoff for betraying a friend? All she could do was scramble for the few scraps of truth that could be shared. “I’ve been preserving botanical samples at the Smithsonian, but Dr. Norwood thought I’d be better off here.”

Horace looked confused, but only for a moment before he launched into another stream of gossip. “Fair enough! My mother always said there is a place for everyone in this world. She never met Dr. Norwood, though! I heard he spent almost a thousand dollars importing a single rare blue orchid from Bombay. Can you believe it?”

He led her inside the laboratory where she’d be working. “Good! Our supervisor isn’t here.” He leaned over to whisper. “Mr. Bryant is a real stick-in-the-mud. Look at the stain on this table.” He gestured to a splotch in the center of the glossy black lab table where the surface had dulled. “Two years ago, I spilled a little bleach on the slate. I wiped it up immediately, but not before it left that stain. It’s harmless, but Mr. Bryant points it out at every opportunity.” He brightened. “Not to worry! Tell me, I’ve heard that funding for a new wing at the Smithsonian is being held up because a congressman suspects one of the Smithsonian explorers is tampering with his wife. Is it true?”

Annabelle blanched at the unsavory gossip. “I have no idea.”

“But has there been a delay in the funding? Because if so, I’ll bet it’s true.”