A stubborn lump worked its way into Grace’s throat. One she couldn’t swallow away. She’d never had anything close to a father in her life. Not when her own had been killed before she met him. And certainly not with her uncle, who saw her more as a workhorse than a niece.

“I’ll be careful,” she said. “But I have to continue with the ARP. Mr. Evans, this is me never stopping—just as you said.”

The corner of his lip lifted in a half smile. “I give terrible advice sometimes.”

“You give excellent advice.”

He pushed up from the table and paused a moment, teetering a bit where he stood. “I haven’t ever told you this before, Grace, but I’m proud of you.”

A warmth blossomed in her chest at his praise. No one had ever said those words to her before, not like that.

Mr. Evans framed his fingertips on the table. “I think I should retire to bed now.”

“I can handle the store,” she offered quickly.

“I know you can.” He reached out and took hold of her shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Mind you look after yourself as well, eh?”

“I will,” she promised.

With that, he nodded and wandered toward the door leading to his flat above the shop, his glasses still askew.

Grace managed the shop that day, using her ARP skills that afternoon to usher the customers to local shelters when an inevitable air raid called out the arrival of more German planes. Those same sirens wailed again that night and the following night, as well as in the afternoons.

People did not ignore the sirens now. Not like before. Not when the damage was so considerable, the worst of which being when South Hallsville School in Canning Town was struck, killing many of the survivors of the East End who were sheltering within.

It was a hard blow for all of London.

Aside from the destruction of the Hewses’ home, Grace’s sector remained untouched during the air raids. Regardless, she and Mr. Stokes were asked to increase their night watches from three times a week to five. Mr. Evans, who never again brought up their discussion about his daughter, allowed her to start a bit later each day to account for the extra ARP shifts.

It was past noon several days later when she entered the bookshop and discovered a small tabby cat sleeping in a sliver of sunshine just inside the door. This discovery was followed almost immediately by the excited trill of Mr. Pritchard’s voice as he offered his ever-present opinion on the state of Britain.

“Did you hear the king and queen were bombed in Buckingham?” he said as she set her things in the back room. “The bloody king and queen, Evans. They’re just like us, they are. We’re all in this together.”