If nothing else, the rare nights offered a chance to rest and a welcome relief after weeks of onslaught. Farringdon Station had no doubt saved the lives of the many people who slept safely tucked underground beneath its fortified ceiling, but it was not ideal lodging. The floor was hard, the tea sold below was twice the cost of what a café would charge outside and the sounds of so many people shifting, talking, coughing and snoring echoed around at all hours. Not to mention the smells, which were best left without elaboration.

While it wasn’t the luxury of sinking into the softness of one’s own bed, sleeping a night without the interruption of a wailing siren, even on the floor of a tube station, was better than nothing.

As the season changed, the weather in England turned abysmal and never had Londoners been gladder for it. Fog, rain and high winds kept the Germans grounded often. Unfortunately, that only made the nights of attacks all the more brutal.

Newspapers were filled with information on bombed areas that offered censored details, citing a blanket statement of tragedy when they could not. And all the while they reminded Londoners their children could still be relocated to the country free of charge.

Grace could not imagine what it must be like for a child to experience the constant bombings. Like the boy who came to her readings.

The adolescent slowly became less skittish around Mrs. Weatherford. Her patient kindness reminded Grace of Colin, handling the frightened child with the care he’d shown with wounded animals. It was recollections such as those that struck the tender place inside Grace she knew would never heal.

Nothing could replace Colin.

But it was good to see Mrs. Weatherford slowly coming back to life.

It wasn’t until midway through December that her perseverance finally paid off as the boy lingered after the reading to speak with her. Grace approached the two cautiously, worried she might run him off.

“He knows you’re with me.” Mrs. Weatherford waved her over. “Come meet Jimmy.”

The boy doffed his cap and lowered his head, revealing the sorry state of his greasy hair, dark with dirt. His eyes lifted and met hers, brilliant, clear blue and large in his skinny face. “Thank you for all the readings you do. And for the food.”

Behind the boy, Mr. Evans lifted his furry brows, as if to ask if his assistance was needed, but Grace gave a discreet shake of her head.

“It’s our pleasure to help,” Mrs. Weatherford replied. “Might I inquire as to where your parents are?”

Jimmy shifted from one foot to the other. “Dead.”

Though Grace had been expecting the answer, she couldn’t help the squeeze of sorrow. He was too young to be on his own.

“What happened to them?” Mrs. Weatherford prodded.