The rest of September passed with nightly bomb raids and more afternoon attacks than not. Somehow, London adjusted.

After all, no one in the world had the spirit of the British. They were fighters. They could take it.

Shops began to close at four every afternoon to allow employees the opportunity for sleep before their night shifts began. Nearly every person had two jobs now. The ones they operated by day and the ones they volunteered for by night, whether putting out fires, watching for bombs, searching through the rubble for survivors or offering medical aid in the many various places it was needed—London came to life at night to help.

Grace found she now could sleep rather effectively in small moments, falling immediately into a deep, dreamless slumber in short snatches of time.

Queues at tube stations and shelters began before eight when the first sirens would inevitably begin to sound, people arriving early on to ensure they received a prime location on the floor. Or in a bunk if they were truly fortunate.

As a result, people grew used to sleeping fully clothed. Some even confessed to bathing in their knickers, far too frightened to be caught unawares and be found dead in the buff.

Yet even with the upheaval and uncertainty, letters continued to pour into the postal service despite the bombings and damaged buildings, operated by way of candlelight with signs declaring they were still open. It was a sad sight to behold, however, when a postman stood before a home reduced to a pile of rubble with a letter held in his hand.

Whatever had stifled the Royal Mail service in the beginning of the war had begun to ease somewhat and Grace received letters from Viv and George with more regularity. It was ironic that their correspondence expressed as much concern for Grace’s safety now as hers did for them.

George had suggested a new book, South Riding by Winifred Holtby, after she’d told him she’d begun reading in the tube station. A copy had been delivered to her at the store just that morning from Simpkin Marshalls, its dust jacket crisp and glossy with newness.

The day held a chill from the previously sodden weather, but a beam of light streamed in through the window. No customers had entered the shop yet and Mr. Evans was busy with his “work” in the history section, so she found herself sitting in a little nook by the window.

A sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone on her with a gentle warmth. Grace paused for a moment and ran her fingers over the book cover, savoring the quiet peace. Relishing the joy of reading.

The jacket was smooth, the print black against a yellow background dotted with small red houses. She slid her fingertip under the lip and drew it open. The spine, not yet stretched, creaked open, like an ancient door preparing to unveil a secret world.