Sorrow for Mrs. Driscoll. Fear that Mrs. Weatherford could end up like her. Shock at how close Grace had come to being blown to pieces herself. The destruction. The gruesome injuries. The blood still smeared on her jacket. The death.

Mrs. Driscoll’s was not the only body they had found that night.

Grace threw open her bedside drawer and dug frantically at the contents until she found the identity wristlet with Viv’s neat script detailing Grace’s name and their address at Britton Street on the smooth oval surface. Grace’s hands shook so hard, it took several tries to secure it on her wrist. Once there, she slid to the floor and let herself be pulled under by the powerful wave of so much horror.

She had to deal with it now, to face its overwhelming and extraordinary force. So she could return to her shift tomorrow and do it all again.

FIFTEEN

By some miracle, Grace found sleep that morning, but as soon as she woke, the memories of the bombing were there. It was as if they’d been lying in wait, hiding in the shadows of her mind for her awareness to return.

They followed her as she made her way to the bookshop, each bombed-out building a nudge at her wounded thoughts. Buildings she saw every day on her quick walk to Primrose Hill Books had been reduced to heaps of brick with broken beams jutting from the destruction. The grocer who always reserved a few raisins for Mrs. Weatherford when he had them, the apothecary who helped them through the cutworms, the café on the corner where she was supposed to go on a date with George. And so many more. They were not the only losses. Many homes were shells of themselves, their missing walls revealing the rooms inside like a child’s macabre dollhouse.

People she passed on the street observed the damage with dull curiosity. A couple strode by, powdered with dust and clutching filthy bundles in their hands, the man’s face hard set and the woman’s eyes red-rimmed from crying. No doubt they had lost their home that night.

They were lucky to have not lost their lives.

Grace entered the bookshop and anxiously swept a loose wave of her hair over her right cheek. She’d taken to wearing her hair in pinned rolls to keep her face clear as she worked. Except that the bruised scrape on her cheek had stubbornly refused to be covered with makeup, and Mr. Evans would no doubt worry.

He looked up and narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious. Grace patted her hair once more, self-conscious, and his attention drifted to the wristlet.

His jaw set. “I heard Clerkenwell was hit last night.”

Grace couldn’t look at him. Not with the tears welling in her eyes. She would be strong. She was better than this.