The following day, when the air raids blared their warning, Grace put Middlemarch in her large handbag and escorted Primrose Hill Books patrons to Farringdon Station. The people she’d read to the day before were waiting for her in a small cluster. Their faces lit up when they saw her, especially after taking note of the book she pulled from her handbag.

They showed up the following day and the one after that as well, each time the number growing slightly larger.

However, mid September, the weather was quite dismal. Bad enough even to discourage German bombers from attempting their daily afternoon raids. It was a rare, uninterrupted day, absent of a single air raid siren.

Grace did not squander it and instead combed through a list of recently released books to see how many she might order from Simpkin Marshalls. The door chimed to announce a customer as she was nearly done, a disruption she did not mind.

When she lifted her gaze, she found the burly man who attended every one of her readings at Farringdon Station. He had his cap in his large hands, wringing the gray wool.

“Afternoon, Miss Bennett.” He ducked his head respectfully. She’d never seen him without the cap settled over his head. His hair beneath was a mix of gray and brown, slightly fuzzed with a bit of his scalp showing at the top.

“M’name’s Jack,” he said. “I wanted to thank you, not only for reading to us from your book, but also for saving my life.”

“Saving your life?” Grace repeated in surprise.

He nodded. “I was in the area the day you started reading, rather by accident. Usually, I’m near Hyde Park in the afternoons, repairing some of the buildings there.” He tilted his head in a humble gesture. “Much as I can. But lately I’ve been finding jobs around here to make sure I’m in the tube to hear you read during air raids. Had I not, I’d have been in Marble Arch Station where I sheltered before.”

Grace put her hand to her mouth to cover her shock.

Two days before during a particularly brutal attack that destroyed nearly all of Oxford Street, a bomb had come through the ceiling of the Marble Arch Station where people were waiting out the attack. The carnage had been considerable, as detailed by Mr. Stokes until Grace had begged him to stop. Those who had not been killed by the bomb had been shredded by the exploding tiles. The injuries had been horrific.

“I’m so...” Grace stammered, unsure what to say. “I’m so pleased you weren’t there. That you’ve remained safe.”

Jack sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, cap still clutched between his thick fingers. “That’s not the only reason I’m here.”

“Oh?” She smiled. “Can I help you find a book?”