At a node higher on the stem, scarcely visible above the dark bark, a tiny green bud had begun to swell. It was no larger than a pinhead, and Clara could have missed it by standing a few inches farther away. Vance crouched again. He removed his glasses, wiped them on a clean handkerchief, and put them back on before studying the bud.
"That's new growth," he said.
For several seconds nobody spoke. The wind touched the water around the cuttings, making little rings that widened and disappeared against the muddy bank. Clara felt something tighten in her throat, not triumph exactly, because most of the field was still uncertain. It was relief that something in the world could surprise her in a good direction.
Henderson adjusted his spectacles. "This is encouraging, I suppose. But I don't see what market you intend to sell them into."
"I don't know yet," Clara admitted. "I was trying to see whether they'd live."
"A successful experiment is not a payment arrangement."
"No, sir. But it tells me I might have something worth studying instead of simply surrendering the place."
He took a sheet from his leather folder and held it toward her. It was an offer drafted around Blackwell's proposed price. Clara could have read it then and there, but she had already learned that people who urged speed often benefited most from her hurry. She thanked Henderson, folded the offer, and put it in her notebook without signing or making a promise. Blackwell's booming laugh returned, but now it carried an impatient note.
"I wouldn't get sentimental about a few sprouts," he said. "Wait until August. This creek can drown a thing one month and bake it the next."
"I intend to wait," Clara replied.
There was nothing clever about the answer. She meant only that she intended to keep watching, and perhaps that was why Blackwell seemed irritated by it. He left soon afterward, complaining about the mud on his boots. Henderson followed, after reminding Clara about the payment deadline. Vance remained for a few minutes to measure the visible buds and ask whether he could take a soil sample from the planted area and another from the untreated field as a comparison.
"I thought this was an official example of everything I shouldn't do," Clara said.
He winced. "It may still prove to be a poor choice over time. But I should have tested more before giving you a conclusion. You're right to record the differences."
It was not a full apology. Clara was not ready to call it one. She gave him permission to take the samples and asked that he send the results in writing, including what the test could not tell them. He looked at her a moment, then nodded with the grave seriousness of a man hearing language he might have expected from a colleague rather than a girl he had come to correct.