“We’ve got it on the run!” I said, between roars. “Keep it up!”
Horace and I continued to advance toward the swan, with me roaring and shaking the pitchfork while Horace alternately waved his arms and beat his chest with them. The swan broke and ran for the door. I heard a small gasp from Sammy, and he leaped inside the door and flattened himself against the wall.
“Good riddance,” I said, as Horace and I watched the swan make its retreat across the pasture and into the woods. “Sammy, bring the judges back in.”
“I think I may faint,” Horace said.
“Take deep breaths,” I said. He sat down and followed my advice.
The swan had knocked over several dozen roses on the tables closest to the prize table. I picked up the ones that had merely fallen and put them back on the table, and counted how many broken vases needed to be replaced.
“Oh, Horace!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “That was wonderful!”
I knew Horace was beaming inside his gorilla head. Sammy, standing nearby, looked forlorn.
“And good job with the door, Sammy,” I said. “Can you fetch three large and two small vases?”
“Right!” Sammy said, and scurried off.
Only one trophy seemed broken, a fragile glass trinket of some sort. We’d find something else to give the winner. Maybe I could get my glassmaker friend to melt the fragments into something even nicer.
I oversaw swapping out the broken vases for new ones, and made sure the right tags were attached to the new vases. I considered calling the exhibitors in to spruce up their entries, and decided that if we waited for that, the judges would probably lose their nerve and leave. Rose Noire swept up the broken glass and Horace and Sammy went to replace the spilled food. The judges shuffled back in, looking anxious.
“Okay,” I said to Rose Noire. “I’m off again. Hold the fort till I get back. And keep the doors closed in case the swan finds reinforcements and comes back to get even.”
Since my route lay in the same direction the swan had taken, I was a little on edge about taking off over the fields. I considered commandeering the pitchfork, but Horace still had it, and was striding up and down the courtyard looking bold and purposeful. The judges might find that reassuring. Sammy had to settle for a mere push broom as his weapon, but he was doing his part, too. I grabbed the horse blanket and set off, looking warily to either side.
By now, I almost knew how to get to Mrs. Winkleson’s detention camp for roses: across the goat pasture, now fortunately devoid of both hungry goats and combative swans, over the fence into the field beyond. The woods around Mr. Darby’s cottage were on my left. I followed the treeline until I spotted the chain link fence.
I slipped into the woods to look around and listen carefully. I didn’t see or hear anything. I ventured out again, and crept up to the rose garden, keeping to the edge of the woods as long as I could.
The gate was shut and locked. I checked the padlock to be sure. I’d brought Dad’s lockpicking tools, just in case they came in handy, but when I saw that it was a very high-tech Medeco I didn’t even bother getting the tools out. According to the genial retired burglar who’d taught Dad a few of his professional skills— just for fun on Dad’s part, since he was an avid mystery reader and adored Donald Westlake’s burglar books— no lock was unpickable, but Medecos came close enough that I didn’t see any reason for me to waste my time on them. So much for plan A, picking the lock. I was expecting to use plan B anyway.
I tied the horse blanket around my shoulders and began climbing up the chain link fence. The horse blanket was for draping over the razor wire at the top, so I wouldn’t get cut to ribbons. I hadn’t quite figured out what to do if the razor wire turned out to be electrified.
Fortunately it wasn’t, and the horse blanket cushion worked. I climbed part of the way down and then jumped, landing lightly beside the first row of roses.
I pulled out the makeshift DNA collection kit I’d assembled from materials available in the prep barn, including a small pair of pruning shears, a box of plastic zipper Baggies, and a black waterproof marker. I drew a quick map of the red rose of them on the first Baggie. The garden contained twenty-three of them in three rows of eight with one empty space near the end of the farthest row, presumably where one bush had died. Then I numbered the bushes on the map and began bagging my specimens, cutting the smallest possible leaf from each bush, numbering the Baggie to match the bush’s place on my map, and adding the name or number of the rose from the tags.
Some of them were familiar names from Dad’s dark rose collection: Deep Secret, Black Baccara, Midnight Blue, and of course Black Magic. Others were identified only by numbers. Mrs. Winkleson favored a six-digit system beginning with zeroes, and had only gotten up to 000117, which meant she had room to add nearly a million more hybrids before she had to amend her system.