The first test results were discouraging. Most kernels did nothing. A few swelled and softened, then failed to produce healthy shoots. Out of the small carefully selected samples, only a handful showed convincing signs of life, and even those had to be protected against fungus and handling damage before they could establish roots.
Callie read the report at the kitchen table while Eli watched her face. He had hoped for rows of little green plants and a letter describing a treasure found intact. Instead the paper contained percentages too low to inspire confidence, warnings about age-related damage, and a recommendation to handle surviving material as irreplaceable rather than abundant. It was enough to make her wonder whether Bragg's interest rested on a legend whose last evidence had died in a cellar.
"So it's over?" Eli asked.
"No." She held up the page. "It means most of what we found can't simply be planted in a field. That's different. There are a few that might still grow. We need to take care of those and find out what we've actually got."
"Is that enough?"
"I don't know." She looked at the tiny photographs attached to the report. "But it's something."
The winter that followed was a season of small humiliations and slower discoveries. One bank officer referred to the buried collection as a hobby when Callie explained why she wanted a modest extension on the operating line. A seed dealer laughed politely when she asked about maintaining isolation between a rare old line and ordinary hybrid corn. A neighbor suggested that if she wanted to grow unusual colors, she should plant decorative corn by the roadside and sell bundles for autumn porches.
Callie listened to all of them because she could not afford to ignore potentially useful advice merely because it was delivered without respect. She took what helped and set aside what did not. A former seed grower explained the difficulty of maintaining genetic identity when pollen could travel beyond the edges of a field. A young agricultural technician showed Eli how to log weather readings and soil conditions consistently, which interested him almost as much as the secret cellar had.
She also met with a local attorney named Helen Carver to ask what legal protection the collection might have. Helen was a practical woman whose office overlooked the county hardware store and whose first response to an exciting discovery was to ask who owned the ground under it. She confirmed the basic property records, reviewed the grain agreement with Bragg, and explained the difference between owning old seed physically, establishing the history of a variety, and negotiating future commercial rights to whatever useful seed might be developed from it.
"You have the right to be cautious," Helen said, laying the documents in front of her. "But a name on an old crate isn't a patent, and a family story isn't a complete chain of title to every possible commercial use. Keep your records. Don't offer exclusive rights while you don't yet know what you're offering. And let me look at anything anybody asks you to sign."