“Miss Basset.” Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat and gestured toward the cat now tangled in the length of string. “I was...ehm...trying to hone his reflexes to help him learn to catch mice.”

Grace smiled despite his perpetual inability to recall her name and seeing through his poorly crafted ruse. “I’m sure it’s quite helpful.”

Mr. Pritchard’s shiny gaze darted about his shop, and she realized he was no doubt seeing the chaos through her eyes. He tucked his head deeper into the bulk of his dark jacket and tutted. “I am impressed with what you’ve done with Mr. Evans’s shop.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his thin lips pressing thinner still. “If you’ve any suggestions...”

Primrose Hill Books was well established now and far enough away that Pritchard & Potts would never be considered legitimate competition. And so it was that Grace offered the older man several tips on advertising and how far a bit of organization could go. While he scowled at the latter suggestion, he nodded intently to her advice on adverts.

She spent far longer at Pritchard & Potts than she’d intended. Indeed, far longer than she’d ever thought she could endure. On her way rushing home afterward, however, she was not in too great a hurry to miss the large pasteboard in the window of Nesbitt’s Fine Reads touting “Live Readings Every Afternoon.”

Just like the ones Grace had continued to do.

She bit back a laugh at such a blatant copy from her austere neighbor. Truly, she wasn’t even cross about it. After all, if it offered more people books to bring joy in such dark times, who was she to be offended?

Certainly, Mrs. Nesbitt’s afternoon reading did nothing to decrease the crowds in Primrose Hill Books. During bomb raids, Farringdon Station’s platform was nearly spilling over with people. Those whose jobs didn’t allow them the ability to come to the shop during afternoons without air raids quickly asked others what they’d missed as everyone pressed in close to hear her over the sounds of war.

They had finished Middlemarch, of course, then had moved onto several other classics, including A Tale of Two Cities and Emma. The latter had been at Mrs. Kittering’s insistence.

The afternoons when sheltering wasn’t necessary were Grace’s favorite. Mr. Evans had procured a thick pillow for her to use as she sat upon the second step of the winding stairs, and she never once had to compete with a whistling bomb. It was on one such quiet, rainy afternoon she first saw the boy in the back as she read South Riding. The book had resonated with her after she’d read it on George’s recommendation.