In the days that followed, as shoots began to push up from the earth and the weather turned mild despite the rain, the bookshop continued to thrive with new customers. However, it was around then that Grace noticed Mr. Evans had begun to seem rather unwell. It started with a small box he brought from the back room. He staggered under the scant weight, huffing and puffing for breath by the time he arrived at the front counter. Grace had asked after him, but he’d waved her off.

Several days later, she found him in the small back room with his hand to his chest, his face flushed a purple-red. She’d insisted he go to the doctor, which of course he did not, the stubborn man.

Just after the first week of April, on a chilly morning that left frost dusted over the slate roofs like sifted flour, Grace found Mr. Evans leaning heavily over the counter upon her arrival.

“Mr. Evans?”

He didn’t look up. Instead, he issued a tight groan and flexed his left hand.

Grace pushed the door open to scream for help from passersby on the street, dropped her handbag and ran around the counter as she shrugged off her jacket. Her body went through the motions that had been trained into her as a warden, even as her mind reeled that this time she was helping Mr. Evans.

She eased him back to the floor, bracing herself against his weight. “Try to remain calm and breathe evenly.” She spoke in the soothing voice she used when working with bombing victims. Only this time there was a tremble there, a break in her composure.

Mr. Evans flailed and gasped as though he could not find air, his face set in a hard grimace of pain. This man who had always been so strong, so unflappable. To see him in such a state, feeble and unable to breathe, it was too much. A tidal wave of emotion that threatened to drown her if she let her head go beneath the surface.

A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow and his face was unnaturally white, his lips a pale blue. Whatever was wrong with Mr. Evans was happening inside his body, something that required a physician. The aid she was used to offering was for a visible trauma she could address.

Powerlessness clawed at her with a frantic desperation. All the reassurances in the world wouldn’t help him.

His hand caught hers, ice cold and damp with sweat. “Alice,” he ground out.

“You’ll be fine,” Grace said firmly.

But he wouldn’t be. She knew that and had no idea what to do to make it better.

He stiffened suddenly and his eyes went wide, practically bulging from his face as though he’d been given a great surprise.

“Someone will be here to help soon.” Grace’s voice broke on the words. “Someone will be here soon.”