Mr. Stokes walked into the shop, wearing a jacket and trousers, tiptoeing about to avoid stepping on books as he made his way toward her. “They told me the bookshop had been struck.” He looked around and frowned. “I’m so sorry.”

“Is your home safe?” Grace asked.

He nodded. “Many didn’t fare as well. It was one of the worst nights we’ve had. They estimate the attack on London last night left over a thousand dead, God save their souls. Double that are injured, and blazes still being put out.” He glanced up, squinting with assessment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “It’s a good thing this place is standing at all. Some of it might still be saved.”

There was a hopefulness to his tone Grace didn’t share.

“Thank you for coming by to check on the shop, Mr. Stokes.” She looked gratefully at him, realizing that he had unexpectedly become something of a friend in the last few months. They’d been through bombings together, seen death together, saved lives together.

She bent to retrieve a book at her feet, its cover splayed open and its pages bent. Before straightening, she collected three more books, pausing to shake a tinkling of shattered glass from them first.

When she stood, he arched a brow. “You don’t truly intend to handle this all on your own, do you?”

Grace regarded the mess in front of her. Books were torn and battered, shelves were in pieces, the history section pasteboard dangled by only one corner and was covered in a smattering of dirt.

When she turned back to Mr. Stokes, she found him standing in a salute. “Mr. Stokes, light recovery crew, reporting for duty.” He lowered his stiffened hand from his brow. “After all, these matters are best not done alone.”

“How could I possibly say no to that?”

“You can’t,” he answered, grinning.

The two of them worked through the morning and well into the afternoon. The damage to most of the books was not as bad as expected, and though the roof was not fully intact, the flat was, which provided shelter enough for the bookshop. For now.

It was a fortunate thing indeed she had been so slow to clear out Mr. Evans’s flat and was still living with Mrs. Weatherford.

Grace and Mr. Stokes swept up the glass and gathered the unsalvageable shelves to set outside for collection, pausing only to have a spot of tea and some fish and chips Mr. Stokes had procured.

The snatches of sleep Grace managed the previous night, however brief they might have been, provided enough energy to get her through the task. Her shirtdress was covered in a layer of dust and soot, and her hands were gritty with filth.