There was a light in everyone, one that dimmed when death took them, like a torch whose battery ran down. Grace had seen it once before in an old woman crushed by a collapsed building as she’d tried to cling to life.

That light in Mr. Evans’s eyes, the one that shone with intelligence, kindness and dry humor—that light that had been so bright and so alive—went out.

“No.” Grace shook her head as a knot lodged in her chest and ached in the back of her throat. She put her fingers to his wrist, but felt no pulse. “No.”

Gingerly, she turned him onto his stomach and bent his arms so the backs of his hands braced his forehead on the carpet. She couldn’t fix what was broken inside him, but she had been well trained on the procedure to restore someone when they were no longer breathing. She put her palms between his shoulder blades and slowly pushed her weight onto him for the length of an exhale. Next, she pulled his arms back by the elbows as she inhaled, willing him to do so as well. Over and over she did this in an effort to force him into breathing once more.

The doorbell chimed, a sharp, ugly sound in light of such unspeakable pain. “Is someone in need of help?” a man’s voice called.

“Here,” Grace cried out.

The man wore a suit and carried a black leather bag at his side. His salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled and exhaustion bruised the undersides of his dark eyes.

Grace explained what had happened with the efficiency of an ARP warden relaying her efforts to medical staff. Only now, she knew the person. She loved him like the father she’d never had. And this time, that person was dead.

The physician put a hand to her shoulder. “You did everything you could. There’s nothing more that can be done.” His brows pinched with genuine sincerity despite the many times he’d no doubt said those words. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry.

It was such a paltry word for the enormity of such an event. A life snuffed out, one that had been so integral in Grace’s world. He had been a mentor, a friend, a father figure.

And now he was gone. Forever.

Sorry.

Mr. Evans was taken away, leaving the shop unnaturally silent. For the first time since the start of the war, Grace closed Primrose Hill Books early and wandered home, her feet carrying her without thought.

She opened the door to the townhouse to Mrs. Weatherford’s exclamation. “Dear me, where is your coat?” Mrs. Weatherford drew up short. “What is it, Grace? Is it Viv? Dear God, please tell me it isn’t Viv.”

Grace shook her head, though she scarce felt the action of doing so. “Mr. Evans.”

Mrs. Weatherford’s face crumpled, and the two women clung to each other through yet another devastating loss.