In the end, Grace applied herself to the messily placed scrim on the windows, peeling away first the tape, then picking at the adhesive that remained in sticky patches along the glass. The task was mindless, which suited her well, for her mind was entirely overfull already.

When there were only two strips left and she was debating whether or not she had time to reapply more tape with proper care, Mr. Evans came to her. “Go home, Miss Bennett. There’s not enough business to even bother staying open. Not today. Besides, I haven’t anything to black out the windows when it grows dark.” He folded his arms over his chest, and his inhale whistled through his nostrils as he looked about his shop. “War is coming and books aren’t what people will be shopping for.”

Grace gathered the discarded tape and stood. “But surely they need entertainment.”

He nodded to the windows. “I’ll bring in newspaper tomorrow.”

Grace hid her grimace of distaste at the thought of layering the wide windows with plastered news sheets. “I can make curtains. Mrs. Weatherford has quite a bit of fabric on hand already. We’ve some to spare.”

Indeed, Mrs. Weatherford had been quite elated to crow over her victory at getting so many yards of heavy black sateen at only two shillings a yard.

Grace didn’t know why she was offering to help Mr. Evans. Especially when he was implying he soon may not have the business to support hiring an assistant. But they had the fabric to spare, and anything she could do to remain useful enough to glean a letter of recommendation would work in her favor.

Grace quickly gathered her purse, hat and gas mask, eager for the extra time off.

Mr. Evans met her at the entrance and flipped the sign from Open to Closed. “Good afternoon, Miss Bennett.”

He closed the door behind her and locked it. The children were gone from the streets by that point, almost as if their organized departure hadn’t happened. On her walk home, Grace pushed her thoughts from the painful recollection and instead considered how to draw more customers into Primrose Hill Books.

She’d done it with her uncle’s shop. Several signs in the window and a few items placed strategically on sale had made all the difference. Soon customers had come with regularity.

Of course, there were fewer patrons at Primrose Hill Books, and the ones remaining perched on tightly strung nerves. But books served a purpose. Distractions were always needed. Most certainly in times of strife.

If she made one store successful once, by God, she could do it again. And this time, she’d jolly well make sure she recieved a glowing recommendation for her efforts.

She met Mrs. Weatherford just outside the townhouse, the older woman’s arms laden with bags.