The weather was so cold outside that the heavy fog seemed laced with shards of ice. Once they were away from the inferno of London’s center, Grace had covered Tabby with the blanket to ensure he’d remain warm. Now, she peeled the thin layer of cloth back, revealing a sleepy-eyed cat who had experienced just as terrible a night as them all.

Mrs. Weatherford put her fingers over her lips. “That isn’t...is that...?”

“Tabby,” Grace croaked through her raw throat.

Mrs. Weatherford touched a hand to Grace’s cheek in silent emotion, then let it come to rest on Tabby’s head. “You were the last—” Her voice caught. “You were the last wounded creature Colin saved.” Suddenly remembering herself, she looked up sharply at Grace. “Mr. Pritchard.”

Grace shook her head. She’d made sure the rescue crews knew his location so that his remains would be seen to properly. “I hoped you would keep Tabby,” Grace said hoarsely. “He’s very frightened, I believe, and could use someone to love.”

Mrs. Weatherford gave a shuddering exhale. “I feel very much the same, little Tabby.” She lifted the cat from Grace’s arms, bundle of cloth and all.

Grace bathed after that, leaving smears of black soot in the small bathroom, but too exhausted to care. She’d meant to clean it when she woke, but found it already done later, practically gleaming with the telltale scent of a good carbolic cleanse.

Downstairs, she found Mrs. Weatherford, who waved off her thanks while cooing over Tabby. For the cat’s part, he appeared to be just as besotted with Mrs. Weatherford as he stretched up to rub his face against hers. Much to her delight.

After the quick meal of vegetable and rabbit stew, Grace left the townhouse to make her way to the bookshop. After all, life went on and she still had a job to do.

There was a bite in the damp air that made her suck in her breath as soon as it hit her. The odor of burning hung acrid on the wind and recalled everything from the night before.

“It’s you,” a curt voice came from the other stoop next door.

Grace blinked against the cold to find Mrs. Nesbitt standing stiffly at the railing of her townhouse. Soot was smeared over her otherwise neat macintosh and her eyes were red-rimmed.

She elevated her head to tilt her glare over her sharp nose. “I’ve just been to my shop. Or what’s left of it.”

Such a sight surely must have been devastating. Grace turned fully to Mrs. Nesbitt, genuine in her empathy. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“You should be,” the other woman hissed.

Grace ought to be used to Mrs. Nesbitt’s stinging rebukes, but those barbs never failed to strike their mark. “I beg your pardon?”