“London can take it,” Mr. Stokes said in a gravelly voice from beside Grace. The ethereal sight had clearly moved him with the same flood of patriotism as he echoed the slogan the government had encouraged since the start of the Blitz.

Even more astonishing, Tabby had remained put, now wrapped in a thin blanket and contentedly sleeping at the end of a pew. Grace lifted the pale blue bundle with her soot-blackened hands, and Tabby blinked awake with his amber eyes.

No sooner had she lifted the small cat against her than he nestled close, clinging with gentle claws. Cat properly in hand, Grace allowed Mr. Stokes to walk her back to the townhouse on Britton Street, too tired to argue that he needed to be home in bed as much as she. Regardless of their exhaustion, and though it was never discussed, they took the longer path to curl around the front of Primrose Hill Books, where it still sat as snug and safe as it had ever been.

She appreciated that the shop remained unharmed, especially when so many had experienced such loss.

Mr. Evans was no doubt back in his flat above the shop after the all clear had sounded early that morning.

Not all homes or people were as lucky. In their sector in Islington, many homes had roof damage from the incendiaries, and a number of properties had been bombed. However, the destruction was nowhere near the devastation of Paternoster Row.

Now, away from such a blazing inferno, the air was colder and a shiver ran down Grace’s back.

Mr. Stokes simply nodded at her when they arrived at her townhouse before he turned to stagger slowly in the direction of his own home on Clerkenwell Street. Mrs. Weatherford pulled the door open before Grace had finished climbing the stairs.

“Grace.” Mrs. Weatherford put her hand to her neck as if she was struggling to breathe. “Oh, thank God you’re safe, my girl. Come in, come in.”

Grace was too tired to do much more than trudge up the remaining steps and into the townhouse. Her throat burned from hours of breathing in the hot air, and her chest felt as though it was clogged with soot.

“I heard it was awful.” Mrs. Weatherford closed the door and fluttered anxiously around Grace. “Was it? No, don’t answer that. I can see it on you that it was. My poor dear. Thank God you’re safe, you’re home. Do you want a spot of tea? Some food? Can I get you anything at all?” She paused in her worried onslaught and looked at the bundle Grace carried.