She woke to the gray glow of a rainy day limning the blackout curtains. Her mouth was dry as wartime cake, and her brain was fogged over with blurred memories. The severity of her fatigue had left her more addled than the French 75s she’d had with Viv at Grosvenor House Hotel months ago.

Suddenly she remembered everything. The bombed bookshop, Mr. Stokes helping her clean and salvage, reading amid the ruination. And Jack bringing his crew to help.

She leapt from the bed then, rushing to dress and go see what they’d managed to accomplish in the afternoon. If nothing else, hopefully they would have the tarpaulin on the roof to prevent any more leaking into Mr. Evans’s flat.

She freshened up and went downstairs where Mrs. Weatherford was sitting in the parlor with Tabby nestled comfortably in her lap.

“I wondered when you might finally wake.” She chuckled and scratched the little cat behind his ears. He leaned into her ministrations as his eyes lazily closed. “I’m glad we were able to make it through the night without a single air raid.”

“The night?” Grace asked, startled.

“Yes, dear. You’ve been asleep since we came home yesterday afternoon.” Mrs. Weatherford looked up. “And good thing too; you’ve been in dire need of rest. Jack said it was for the best. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he? He said to assure you that the shop—”

“The bookshop.” Grace hastened to the front door.

“Do eat something before you go,” Mrs. Weatherford called.

But Grace was already rushing out the front door, practically running to Primrose Hill Books. Once more, her feet skidded to a halt before the shop in shock. She’d hoped for a tarp on the roof and saw now there was none.

There was slate.

Mismatched and oddly shaped bits that came together to form a solid roof. The windows were covered in waxed linen, stretched taut in their frames like drum skins.

Even the soot streaking the stucco from the fires had been painted over.

It was all as if it had never happened. Grace strode toward the door—the door!

Its trim suggested it might have been cut down from a larger size, but a fresh coating of black paint gave it a fine look. She put her hand to the dented brass knob and entered the shop.

A familiar ding cheerfully welcomed her.

Along with an extraordinary sight.

Shelves of various heights and colors, pieced from odds and ends of repurposed wood, once more offered an array of books lining the walls, and the shelves stacked at the shop’s center had been dusted and filled as well. Pasteboard signs in a neat script hung once more where they ought to, and even several advertising displays had been replaced.

It was too much in the most wonderful way. An absolute miracle.