It was that final thought that made up Grace’s mind. For she would never allow herself to become so bitter. Even to the likes of Mrs. Nesbitt.

Grace was halfway up the short steps to Mrs. Nesbitt’s townhouse when a familiar voice called out to her. “Grace, are you confused?” Mrs. Weatherford asked. “It isn’t even blackout and you’re going to the wrong home. You need more sleep, dear.”

Mrs. Weatherford wore the gray-green uniform of the WVS, indicating she’d likely just returned from a meeting. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright with the spark of life.

Grace stepped down and quickly explained what she intended to speak with Mrs. Nesbitt about. Mrs. Weatherford’s back stretched a little taller, her shoulders squared. “Then I shall go with you.” Before Grace could decline, Mrs. Weatherford shushed her. “I’ll not let you tackle that beast alone, especially not when you’re going to her with such goodness in you.”

And so it was that Grace and Mrs. Weatherford rapped upon the brass knocker of Mrs. Nesbitt’s door.

The woman greeted them with a look about as warm as the frosty day. “Your home is next door.” She lifted one sharply arched brow. “Or have you forgotten?”

“We’re here to see you,” Grace said.

“And could use a bit of tea.” Mrs. Weatherford rubbed her cold hands together, not so subtly reminding Mrs. Nesbitt of her manners to guests. “We’re likely to get chilblains out here.”

Mrs. Nesbitt sighed and opened her door. “Do come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

She showed them to the parlor where the plushness of the blue velvet sofa felt as though it had just been purchased. There was an austere beauty to the room, like a museum full of fragile items you weren’t allowed to touch. Everything was neat and orderly from the freshly polished end table to the many various figurines and scattered pictures of what appeared to be Mrs. Nesbitt as a young woman.

Grace and Mrs. Weatherford both perched awkwardly at the edge of the cushioned sofa, afraid to lean back and leave an imprint in the brushed velvet. Mrs. Nesbitt arrived several minutes later with a tea tray and presented teacups made of a fine bone china so thin, Grace could see the light of the back window through it.

“What can I do for you?” Mrs. Nesbitt asked. “Aside from deplete my tea and sugar rations in a bid to be hospitable.”

Grace detoured the path of her hand from the sugar bowl to her cup, opting to drink her tea plain. “We’d like to offer a space for you at Primrose Hill Books to sell your books. You’ll receive your profit from them, of course, and we’ll ensure people know they are books from your store.”

Mrs. Nesbitt’s brow crinkled upward. “Are you in earnest?”