The first bite was rich and clean, with none of the stale taste that sometimes reached a kitchen after eggs spent too long on a hot shelf. Vera ate the whole thing standing beside the stove, then sat down at the table because her knees had unexpectedly become weak. She had imagined many possible outcomes since March, including disappointment, slow growth, and an embarrassing lesson in trusting strange-looking animals. She had not allowed herself to imagine one egg making her feel that the entire room had changed.
The next morning there were three eggs. On Saturday there were seven, and within a few weeks the nest boxes held ten or eleven on most days from the twelve hens. Some were smaller than the first, and a few had uneven shells that she set aside rather than selling, but the general character remained remarkable. The blue-white shells were strong, the eggs were large, and the yolks tended toward the same deep gold when she broke them for her own meals. Vera recorded every departure from the pattern as carefully as the successes, because an honest account would be more useful than a flattering one.
She also checked the cost of every egg against the feed consumed to produce it. The result was not a fortune, not yet, but it was better than she had expected and considerably better than the return on most of the farm's wheat that dry year. When she calculated what a dozen eggs might bring at the standard market price, the number did not make her heart race. What made her reach for her coat and keys was the possibility that someone who knew quality might pay more.
On Monday morning she placed the six best eggs in a basket lined with folded cloth, choosing them for uniform size and unblemished shells rather than simply selecting the largest. She tightened the lid, settled the basket beside her in the truck, and drove toward the general store in town. The road was rough enough to make her check the basket twice, and dust rose behind the tires in a long pale cloud. She had no plan beyond asking a fair question of a woman who had spent three decades buying eggs and could recognize a good one in a room full of pretenders.
Martha Greer's store stood at the corner of the square, with flour stacked near the front window, a hand-painted sign offering kerosene, and a bell that gave a weary jangle whenever someone entered. Martha herself was in her fifties, broad-shouldered, alert, and famous for knowing both the market price of a thing and the reason its owner needed to sell it. She had heard about Vera's unusual chickens, because in Meade County almost nothing remained unreported for long. But when Vera set the basket on the counter and removed the cloth, Martha stopped reaching for the ledger beneath her hand.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Eggs from the birds I bought in March. I'd like to know what you'd pay for them."