“I’m sorry,” Rose Noire said. “We have the key, but there just always seems to be something else more urgent.” Her urgent task of the moment seemed to be teaching several kittens to chase a bit of string.
“You need more help,” I said. I was vastly proud of myself for having said “you” instead of “we.”
“We’re bringing in more Corsicans to help,” Grandfather said, waving his hand grandly, as if he had an infinite number of Corsicans at his disposal, along with Sardinians, Sicilians, and perhaps even a few surviving Etruscans.
“Corsicans?” I echoed. “What do you need Corsicans for? Do they have some kind of national expertise at fostering animals?” I probably sounded a bit hostile, but I had good reason. We’d only recently gotten rid of a Spanish houseguest who’d come for a few days to see a college drama production and ended up staying nearly four months. I wasn’t eager to see any more European visitors showing up in need of lodging.
“No, that’s what we call ourselves,” Dad announced. “Corsicans. Members of the Committee Opposed to the Ruthless Slaughter of Innocent Captive Animals. CORSICA.”
“It’s a new organization,” Clarence explained. “Formed in the wake of the town manager’s inhumane new policy.”
I was willing to bet they’d spent at least as much time working on their catchy acronym as they had on formulating their plan to combat the new shelter policy. Possibly more, if burgling the shelter was all they’d come up with.
“Invite as many Corsicans as you want, then,” I said. “As long as they’re not expecting bed and board.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably one of them now,” Rose Noire said, leaping up to race to the door. “And about time, too. I started calling over an hour ago!”
I glanced at my watch. No, I hadn’t been mistaken earlier. It was only a little past five in the morning.
“You were calling people at four A.M.?” I exclaimed. “How many of them blessed you out for waking them?”
“They were all thrilled at the chance to be of use,” Dad said. “Everyone wanted to help with the mission, of course, but we had to keep the numbers down. For security.”
“And now that the word is getting out, I’m sure we’ll be simply flooded with volunteers,” Rose Noire called from the hallway.
“Swell,” I muttered. And when the volunteers grew thirsty, hungry, or needed a bathroom?
“Caroline!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “Come in! You’re the first one here!”
My spirits rose a little. I liked Caroline Willner, the elderly owner of a wildlife refuge a few counties away. Even better, she had more common sense than anyone in the room—possibly more than everyone in the room combined—and was one of the few people in the world who could give my grandfather orders and actually get him to follow them.
“Welcome,” I said, as Caroline sailed into the room like a small, plump, gray-haired whirlwind.
“Meg! I can’t believe these idiots brought all those animals here—and you so busy with the twins. But we’ll take them off your hands, no problem. Monty! You old goat! What are you doing sitting on your duff goofing off when there’s work to be done?”
“I am not goofing off!” Grandfather said, holding his head high with wounded dignity. “I am endeavoring to come up with a plan of action.”
“Well, any plan has to start with getting the livestock out of Meg’s living room,” Caroline said. “Let’s get cracking on that, and then you can do your endeavoring out in the barn.”
Under Caroline’s direction, things started moving, and the pace picked up rapidly, as other Corsican volunteers trickled in. By 7:00 A.M., we had fifteen volunteers out in the barn, working with the animals.
Well, actually only twelve working with the animals. I took my big coffeemaker out to the barn and showed Thirteen how to use it, then gave Fourteen and Fifteen some cash and sent them to town for provisions, human and animal.
“This would be a lot easier if you’d left all the stalls here,” Grandfather complained as he surveyed the interior of the barn.
“No, it wouldn’t,” I said. “The old stalls were literally falling down from neglect. They wouldn’t have been safe for the animals.”
“I suppose it will have to do.” He strode off and began giving orders that contradicted everything Caroline had planned. I decided to stay out of the ensuing verbal donnybrook.
Instead, I drifted over to my workspace. Mother might be proud of the redecorating she’d done in the house, but I thought I’d done a rather nice job on the renovation of the barn—with help from the Shiffley Construction Company, of course. The former tack room was now my office, and right outside we’d torn down some ramshackle stalls to create a storage room for supplies on one side and a forge area on the other. I twined my fingers through the metal grate that separated me from the forge—an ingenious suggestion from Randall Shiffley, that allowed me to spread out into the main part of the barn if I wanted to, and then lock up my expensive work tools safely when I was finished.