Waiting for an air raid siren to go down to the tube would mean no available space on the crowded station floor, so they went out into the dusk with their bundles of blankets in preparation to queue when Grace noticed the overcast sky had begun to clear. A shiver prickled over her skin, leaving the small hairs along her arms standing on end.

There would be a bomber’s moon that night. They would need all the cloud cover they could get.

Especially with the Thames at low tide.

Apprehension tingled in the back of her mind. Exacerbated, no doubt, by her weariness.

They made their way into the underground, stepping over people who had already set up their place to rest for the night and locating a spot where they might settle down together. But no matter how tired Grace was, peace would not find her.

Usually she could sleep through the talking and snoring around her, so weary she’d be in a dreamless state within minutes. That evening, however, her slumber was repeatedly broken with haunting memories clattering about her mind like a pocketful of pebbles.

The air raid cried its wailing tune sometime after eleven that night, muffled by the layers of earth and pavement overhead. The subsequent bombing, however, was not so easily muted.

The screeching bombs. The pounding fire of the ack-ack guns. The thundering boom of explosives obliterating everything in its path wherever they descended. Plaster sifted from the ceiling in chunks and chalky dust. The lights flickered, going out completely for spells at a time.

They were used to these sounds, yes, but whatever went on overhead was far worse than ordinary bombing nights.

The apprehension lodged in Grace’s chest amplified.

Mrs. Weatherford clutched her large green bag to her, part of one hand thrust inside where Grace knew she was stroking Tabby. They weren’t supposed to bring pets down with them, but Mrs. Weatherford refused to leave the small cat, and he had the good sense to stay quiet in his sack until they could return home in the morning.

As the night crept on, the sounds continued with one hour banging into another until dawn when the onslaught finally came to an end. The foreboding rattling inside Grace crystalized into something cold and sharp. Insistent.

Something was not right.

She could feel it.

Like an ant tickling over one’s skin, or the pregnant moisture in the air before a deluge. Something was not right.

The all clear finally issued its one-note call and those who’d sought shelter in Farringdon Station queued for departure. It was an agonizing wait that clawed at Grace’s patchwork patience. She could scarce stand in place, shifting from one foot to the other.