She stood awkwardly in a state of uncertainty with her purse and gas mask box on her shoulder, still wearing her hat. Mr. Evans did not appear to notice as he scrawled a series of numbers into a ledger. The pencil tip was carefully pinched between the pads of his fingertips. One more sharpening and the thing would be nonexistent.

Grace cleared her throat. “Where am I to set my belongings?”

“Back room,” he muttered as his hand continued to move against the paper.

She glanced to the rear of the store and saw a door, presumably where she was being directed. “Then what would you like me to do?”

The lead of the pencil snapped, and Mr. Evans hissed out an exhale of frustration. He leveled a stare at her. “I told you, I don’t need help. You can sit in the back room and sew or settle into a corner with a book to read or file your nails. I don’t care.”

Grace nodded and slipped down the misaligned aisle of shelving toward the door he’d indicated. Above it was a dingy brass placard with “Primrose Hill Books” engraved at its top and a small line of words beneath—“where readers find love.” Hopefully it was an omen that her six months might not be all bad.

The room was narrow and dimly lit by an uncovered bulb, with a flimsy table and chair. Boxes lined every wall, sometimes layered two and three deep, minimizing the space so that one could barely move. It was far less welcoming than the shop itself, which Grace hadn’t thought possible. She located several hooks on the wall where she hung her effects and went back to the main area of the shop.

She’d never been one for sewing—that was Viv’s area of expertise—and wouldn’t know where to start with which book to read, let alone how to shelve them. A glance at her nails, however, had her lamenting having forgotten her nail file at home.

There was nothing for it but to find something to do. The thick layers of dust on the shelves begged to be wiped clean. Granted, dusting the shop hadn’t been on the list Mr. Evans had recommended, but the shop was in sore need.

Three hours later, nearly choking on dust motes in the air, she regretted her choice. Her white shirtdress with sprigs of pink flowers, one of her favorites, was streaked with grime, and Mr. Evans glared in her direction every time he coughed. Which was quite often.

Through it all, several customers had come and gone. She’d tried to linger near them as she worked, employing considerable care to not send dust clouds in their direction, but still close enough should they require help.