When the anti-aircraft guns fired, Grace raised her voice to be heard. When the lights winked in and out, she continued on as best she could, recalling from her peripheral vision what words were to come next. And when a new character spoke, she invented a voice for each and every one of them.

A howling screech came overhead, followed by a boom that plunged the tube station into darkness.

“Here.” There was a rustling as someone dug in a handbag, followed a moment later by the weight of a torch being nudged into Grace’s hand. She flicked on the beam and continued to read, bringing the entire group with her through the story. The all clear sounded and broke through her reading, making her blink at the abrupt transition between the fictional world and reality.

She returned the borrowed torch with thanks and discovered she was already several chapters into the book.

“Will you be here tomorrow afternoon?” the housewife asked.

“If we have an air raid.” Grace tucked a scrap of paper between the pages to mark her place and cradled its weigh in her palm.

“Then she will,” the burly man said.

The young mother, who Grace learned was called Mrs. Kittering, nodded at the book in Grace’s hand with a hopeful smile. “Perhaps you can bring Middlemarch with you?”

After promising to resume where they’d left off, Grace and Mr. Evans returned to the bookshop.

“You mentioned once feeling helpless amid this war.” He flipped the sign to Open in the window. “But down there, reading to all those frightened people, you had power.”

“I confess, I felt rather foolish reading aloud like that.” Grace stacked the discarded books left on the counter during the air raid and set them aside in case the customers returned for them.

He shook his head. “Not foolish at all, Miss Bennett. You’ll change this war yet.” He tapped his blunt fingers on the cover of Middlemarch. “One book at a time.”

FOURTEEN

The damage from the attack that afternoon was considerable, leaving a massive crater carved into the street in the middle of the Strand. Over six hundred German planes had crossed into Britain, their bellies heavy with bombs. But while they had come with the intention to destroy more of London, the RAF was prepared to defend.

The Luftwaffe came back that night, of course. They always did.

Grace was on duty, grateful that her sector, once more, remained blessedly untouched. It would not remain thus forever. Not when the rest of London had been chipped away to reveal ribs of support beams and blown-out windows reminiscent of the empty sockets of a skull.