Grace and Mr. Stokes managed to put out the fires in their sector while the blaze near the river grew brighter.

They’d passed Primrose Hill Books several times to ensure it remained secure, confirming it had indeed. Mr. Evans had taken to keeping Mrs. Weatherford company in Farringdon Station. At least Grace could be at ease knowing they were both safe.

While the sky glowed with orange and red intensity, the bookshop remained quietly tucked in the shadows of the blackout. It was on one such check-up that they came upon a fireman, his face streaked with soot and glossy with sweat.

“If your sector is clear, we need help.” His gait increased to a run as he pointed in the distance. “Paternoster Square. Bring whatever you can.”

EIGHTEEN

A chill prickled down Grace’s spine despite the heat caused by her exertions. What of the booksellers’ district on Paternoster Row, which connected to the square? What of Simpkin Marshalls who so readily provided all the books to the bookshop? What of the printers and publishers and all the many stores?

Grace and Mr. Stokes wasted no time. Armed with their stirrup pump and an empty bucket, they followed the fireman, running several blocks. The blaze became more visible with each step, glowing as if it were one solid inferno with firefighters on all sides, spraying the flames from their taxi-drawn wagons.

The thundering report of the ack-ack guns firing at the Germans was louder too, along with the whistling of dropping bombs and the inevitable explosions that followed.

The closer Grace and Mr. Stokes drew to Paternoster Square, the hotter the air became, until it was like trying to breathe in an oven.

“Grace, we need to stop,” Mr. Stokes panted at her side, bending over to catch his breath.

He said something else, but a bomb whistled nearby, went silent for a breath of a moment, then detonated with a deafening explosion that set the ground underfoot rumbling.

“We can’t stop now.” She picked up her pace, running at full tilt, rounding the corner of Paternoster Row and stopping.

Where holy men once blessed the streets, hell had descended.

Choking plumes belched up from the flames and singed pages scattered through the debris-ridden street like the feathers from wings that had been ripped apart.

The street glowed red with the consuming conflagration, yet several buildings remained untouched, most likely those whose owners employed fire watchers on their roofs. Though they were few and far between.

The stores full of dry books were like tinder waiting for a match. Most had fire crawling across their slate roofs, dancing wickedly over their costly wood interiors and stretching out from their shattered windows, the exterior paintwork blackening with soot.

Simpkin Marshalls, who often touted their stock of millions of books, burned like a funeral pyre.