When Grace woke later that morning, she learned on the news that St. Thomas’s hospital had been hit, having received a direct blow along one major section. Nearby, a school had also sustained terrible damage. The Nazis were a foul lot, but it was truly low to target the infirm and children.

Anger burned through Grace, arming her with the need to continue her role with the ARP—to do her part to fight Hitler.

She was ready to declare as much to Mr. Evans when she went to the bookshop, but found the door closed and locked tight upon her arrival. He’d presented her a key some months before, and she dug it out of her handbag, unlocking the shop. Once inside, she flipped the sign to Open and pulled back the blackout curtains to let in a stream of cloudy sunlight as she called out for Mr. Evans. He did not reply.

Apprehension tightened along her back.

It was the only time in her employment he wasn’t standing at the counter like a sentry, awaiting her arrival before disappearing into the back to resume his daily work. His work, she’d surmised in the last year, was mainly reading the day away.

And now, he wasn’t there.

The building didn’t appear damaged, meaning his flat above would have remained intact. Images flooded her mind, colored with Mr. Stokes’s terrible stories. What if Mr. Evans had been out the previous evening and was caught unawares?

She called his name again as she strode to the rear of the shop and pushed into the small backroom.

It was the smell of alcohol that hit her first.

Scotch.

Her uncle had drunk the stuff. It stank like paraffin oil and tasted far worse. Not that she was one for sampling paraffin oil.

Mr. Evans was slumped in his chair, half sagging over the tabletop. A bottle of amber liquid sat before his folded elbow, and his hand limply curled around a nearly empty crystal glass.

Were it not for that bottle at his side, she might have been truly worried. Though the image of him in such a state was still rather disconcerting.

“Mr. Evans?” Grace stepped into the quiet room and set aside her handbag.

He lifted his head, though his glasses rested askew across his face, and gave her a bleary look from the crooked lenses. His normally immaculately combed hair was mussed and his brown pullover atop his collared shirt, the same he’d worn the day before, was rumpled. “Go home, Miss Bennett.” His words were thick with sleep and drink, and he lay his head on the table once more.

“I can’t go home. It’s morning and we’ve a store to run.” She gently reached for the glass and pulled it from his hand.