In the afternoon, Mrs. Weatherford arrived just before Grace’s reading, her gaze sharp as she scanned the surrounding faces. The boy arrived just before Grace began and settled in to listen. As she finished the last passage, the boy rose and so too did Mrs. Weatherford.

Grace gave part of her attention to the paragraph in front of her as she watched Mrs. Weatherford out of the corner of her eye.

The older woman approached the boy in his secluded corner. He stiffened and regarded her quietly with his large eyes as she offered the bread. He stared at it for so long that Grace thought he might decline.

Mrs. Weatherford nodded, saying something Grace couldn’t hear. Then, quick as a bullet, he grabbed the loaf, tucked it under his jacket and skittered out of the shop.

Mrs. Weatherford met Grace’s gaze and offered a proud nod. She had done it. If nothing else, the boy would have food for one day.

Except Grace knew Mrs. Weatherford better than that. There would be many more days after this one. At the townhouse that afternoon, the mail wasn’t on the floor where it usually remained after being pushed through the slot by the postman. It had been added to the stack near the door, which appeared noticeably smaller as though it had finally been sorted.

At the top was a letter addressed to Grace from Viv. And beneath that one, another from George. Such a double blessing was indeed good fortune, for when Grace opened them, she found they both contained a similar message that sent her squealing with girlish delight.

Both Viv and George would be returning to London for Christmas.

SIXTEEN

It had been the end of October when Grace received the letters from Viv and George stating they’d be visiting in time for the festivities. A week later, London experienced its first night without a single bombing.

The weather had been terrible. Rain lashed sideways, thunder growled like a beast and lightning streaked the cloudy sky. Grace had been on duty with Mr. Stokes, both anticipating the air raid that blessedly never came. The hours of that shift had stretched on for an eternity, boredom after so much excitement and an unending assault of blistering rain.

The next morning, those who had sheltered in the tube station emerged with bright eyes and well-rested smiles. It had been hard not to envy their night of solid rest and dry clothing. But the following evening when Grace was off from her ARP work, she had her turn.

It was a beautiful thing to sleep the night through, without the all-too-present cry of the air raid siren.

It wasn’t to last, of course, but the bombings did become more sporadic.