Viv’s mouth stretched in a ghost of a smile. “Maybe even a cheetah?”

“Don’t forget its lead,” Grace cautioned.

Viv’s expression turned serious. “We’ll make it through this, Grace Bennett. Just you see.”

She clasped her hand over Grace’s, a reminder of the camaraderie they’d shared since childhood. That solidarity had helped them survive the pain of Grace’s mother’s death, the drudgery of life in Drayton, Viv’s overbearing parents and even the incessant teasing of Geoffrey Simmons, the dolt.

Together, they would be able to take on anything thrown at them—whether it be a curmudgeonly shop owner or a coming war.

FOUR

The queue of children was tragically endless.

In truth, Grace hadn’t had much chance to think of the evacuation. There had been too much activity the evening before as they prepared for the first night of the government mandated blackout while Colin put the final touches on the Anderson shelter in Mrs. Weatherford’s poor torn-up garden.

The ruined flower beds had been mentioned several times by Mrs. Weatherford, despite her sniffed remarks that she didn’t care a whit.

Through it all, Grace was ashamed to admit she hadn’t remembered about the children. Not when she’d left Britton Street to make her way to Primrose Hill Books. Especially not when she caught sight of strange silver balloons in the sky, as large as townhouses and suspended above the city like bloated silver fish. Odd things that no doubt served some purpose of war.

She stared up at one so intently as she turned down Albion Place, that she nearly crashed into a man in a blue wool Royal Air Force uniform with his full kit slung over one shoulder.

“Forgive me,” Grace said. “I didn’t—”

Whatever else she meant to say died on her tongue, for that was when she caught sight of the children. The queue ran down the length of the street, heading in the direction of Farringdon Station.

The RAF officer replied, but she didn’t hear him as he strode briskly past. She couldn’t take in anything more than the endless stream of children with their small gas masks hanging from strings at their sides, their information pinned on their jackets and their bags of belongings. Such small bags for what might be a long absence. For who knew when the children would return?

Some were eager, their faces bright in anticipation for an adventure. Others were tearstained as they clung to their mothers. As for the women accompanying them, each one was pale, their expressions steeled against the agony of their task.

No mother should suffer a choice such as theirs: to send their child to live with a stranger in the country or allow them to stay in the city where it was dangerous.