Through it all, life in the battered city went on, its people taking whatever pleasure wherever they could and trying to savor the final vestiges of fine weather before the ice and snow swept in. Especially if the upcoming months were to be as frigid as the winter before.

So it was that sometime past the middle of October on a particularly lovely day with almost no clouds or rain, Grace found herself longing to forego an extra wink of sleep for a chance to walk in the vestiges of a sunny day. An order from Simpkin Marshalls failed to arrive that afternoon, and she found her opportunity.

When she’d suggested to Mr. Evans that she go by and check, he’d smiled with understanding and told her to take her time. And take her time she did. Grace strolled to Paternoster Row, making the short walk last a few extra minutes more than necessary. There was a nip in the air, yes, but nothing the sunshine couldn’t warm away.

Grace had been back to Paternoster Row many times after that fateful first visit. The bustle of foot traffic hadn’t diminished since the start of the war; if anything, it was busier with more people seeking books to entertain them through the long nights in their shelters.

The glossy red buses once so prevalent had suffered heavy losses due to the frequent bombings. She’d witnessed far too many on the sides of bombed roads, crumpled like discarded children’s toys. One was still visible from time to time, amid the green, blue, brown and white coaches sent to replace the ruined public transportation.

The vendors along the pavement still sold their fare made with recipes altered to accommodate the ration. And though patrons complained the food was never quite up to snuff, they still queued to buy.

She knew all the vendors by now, as well as the shop owners and publishers. She entered the shops at a leisurely pace, greeting the owners by name and perusing their new arrivals, not as a competitor, but as a reader. It was a glorious thing to walk down a street devoted to books, where lovers of literature could congregate and indulge in their passion with like-minded souls.

And though she now understood everyone’s insistence that Mr. Evans relocate his shop to Paternoster Row, she could not imagine Primrose Hill Books anywhere else than in its present location, tucked amid a row of townhouses on Hosier Lane.

Her mood was so fine that day, she even chanced a visit to Pritchard & Potts where she found Mr. Pritchard dangling a string before Tabby. The cat raked a paw through the air with fanatical determination, so set on his prize, he didn’t even turn at the sound of the bell. Mr. Pritchard, however, startled and dropped the string, which was immediately pounced upon by Tabby.