He stared for a long while at the clothes. Three collared shirts, three pairs of trousers, two pullovers and a thick coat.

All at once, he sniffed hard and swiped at his nose with the sleeve of his dirty jacket.

“It’s too much,” he croaked in a thick voice. He lifted a watery gaze at them, his mouth pressed hard together.

Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. “It’s not nearly enough.”

That afternoon, Mrs. Weatherford cast off the weight of her sorrow and marched back to the WVS to resume her aid. This time she homed her focus in on seeing to the orphans of the Blitz. She went at the task with fire and purpose, which was as true a Christmas miracle as Grace had ever seen.

Two evenings later, Grace was preparing herself for another shift for the night period with Mr. Stokes when the air raid siren screamed through the peaceful quiet. The sound of it nearly startled Grace. The nights since Christmas Eve had been quiet in London, an unspoken ceasefire. Overhead, the thick clouds indicated the night was not ideal for bombing, especially not so early in the evening.

Though it was only a few minutes past six, Grace led Mrs. Weatherford to Farringdon Station to join the queue of people waiting to get in and rushed to the ARP post. After all, there was no sense in being in the shelter for less than an hour, especially when an opportunistic entrepreneur might claim her spot on the tube station floor and try to sell it to a tardy soul later for two shillings.

Mr. Stokes was already at the post when she arrived, clearly having had the same idea. He smirked when he saw her, his thin lips stretched beneath his mustache. “The German planes are early tonight.”

“It would have been polite to at least wait until our night shift started.” Grace buckled her tin hat under her chin with a leather strap.

Mr. Stokes grumbled his agreement.

Outside, the vibration of passing planes reverberated with such intensity, Grace could feel the engines humming through the soles of her shoes.

This night would be bad.

She left the safety of the sandbag-laden post and went out into the wet chill of a late December night. However, it was not blackness that met her eyes, but a glow of orange in the distance, where a nearby part of London was on fire. Close to the Thames. By St. Paul’s Cathedral.

The planes rattled by overhead, emptying their bellies to strike an area several streets over. As objects fell, they spilled out small cylinders and a familiar sound met Grace’s ears. A swish, followed by the tapping of dozens of these sticks crashing through roofs and striking the pavement, violently sputtering flames upon impact.

“Incendiaries,” Grace called out to Mr. Stokes as she slung the coil of tubing for the stirrup pump over her shoulder.