Grace went through her large handbag with the gas mask tucked inside, and withdrew the book she’d been reading aloud, Jane Eyre.

“Miss Bennett, you don’t need to do that,” Mrs. Kittering said. “Not today.”

But her protest only steeled Grace’s spine more, as her mother had always encouraged. “Of all days, I think we need this now more than ever.”

Or at least Grace certainly did. As a reminder of what she might hopefully rebuild again.

Someday.

Somehow.

She made her way to the second step of the stairs, which hadn’t yet been brushed off, and swiped at it to clear the debris. A handkerchief appeared in front of her from Mrs. Smithwick. Grace smiled her thanks.

The stair was near enough to the window that she could make out the type on the page well enough to read without the aid of her torch. She sat down and looked at the faces of those gathering around her with uncertainty. It was then she realized she ought to say something.

But what? That she didn’t know how long it would take to repair such damage? Especially when another raid might crumble what little was left. Or the first downpour might leak through the flat above and destroy the entire shop.

As if the cruelest of fates heard her thoughts, a low rumble issued forth from the broken windows, indicating the likelihood of a storm.

Despair pulled at her like an undertow, threatening to suck her down in a dark abyss.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said in an uncertain voice. Jane Eyre sat on her knees, an emblem of what had brought them all together, of what had unified them in the face of war and danger. Jane had courage, a considerable amount for all she’d faced, and Grace tried to draw as much from the book’s protagonist in that moment.

“As you can see, Primrose Hill Books has been struck by last night’s bombing, as were many, many Londoners.” Grace folded her hand around the cover of the book. “I cannot tell you when we will be back in proper form again. I do not know—” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. “I do not know if it will even be possible to continue.”

She looked out at the sea of faces she’d grown to know so well. The professors who loved to gather in their philosophical debates, the housewives, like Mrs. Kittering, who found refuge from their empty homes between the covers of books, men from the heavy rescue who sometimes needed more than what could be found in a flask to make them forget what they’d seen. And even Jimmy, who sat with Sarah tucked protectively against him, both under the watchful gaze of Mrs. Weatherford. The older woman’s worried expression told Grace exactly how bad the shop truly looked.