She found the shop without issue, yet another testament to Mrs. Weatherford’s fine directional abilities. The narrow shopfront was not located on Primrose Hill as the name suggested, but rather was one of many in a line that ran along Hosier Lane, each with windows reflecting the dullness of the clouded afternoon sun. The bookshop’s first two floors had been painted black with a yellow stuccoed facade rising above it, cracked and faded with age. A white sign proclaimed Primrose Hill Books in a glossy black looping text. The effect was clearly meant to be elegant, but seemed to Grace as rather flat and cheerless.

The sentiment was echoed in the shop’s dingy windows, which were layered with lopsided strips of white scrim rather than displaying a purposefully set, enticing display. The tape wasn’t uncommon; many had adhered it to their glass windows in shops and at home for prevention against shattering in case of a bombing. Usually, however, it was done neatly and with care.

A pull of trepidation dragged at Grace once more. What if Mr. Evans asked after the last book she’d read? She drew in a deep breath to fortify herself and pushed into the shop. A little bell rang overhead, far too happy for a place so dreary.

There was a mustiness in the air, mingled with a scent reminiscent of wet wool. Layers of dust on the shelves indicated most of the stock had not been touched in some time, and piles of books on the scuffed wooden floors lent it all a sense of disarray. This effect was heightened by a counter off to the right, which was cluttered with what appeared to be haphazardly stacked accounts amid a chaotic sea of pencil nubs and various other bits of rubbish.

It was no wonder Mr. Evans required assistance.

“Call out if you need something.” The unseen voice was as dry and disused as the books.

“Mr. Evans?” Grace made her way deeper into the small shop.

Rows of unmarked shelves stretched high above her head, pressed so closely together she wondered how anyone might fit between them to peruse their contents. A second story balcony curled around the perimeter of the first floor, visible above the towering shelves and just as overcrowded and messy. Despite its external size, the shop’s interior had been rendered far too small and tight.

Footsteps shuffled toward her as a portly man with white hair and bushy brows squeezed from a narrow aisle with an open book framed between his hands. He lifted his head from the pages and regarded her for a long moment without speaking.

“Mr. Evans?” Grace stepped carefully around a knee-high stack of books.

His eyebrows crawled up over his glasses. “Who are you?”