“Pritchard, is that you?” Mr. Evans emerged from the forest of shelves, an ever-present book propped in his hands just over the paunch of his belly. He snapped it shut and pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

“You hired an assistant?” The man looked around the shop, his beak of a nose exacerbating his birdlike appearance. “Are you doing all that well, then?”

“You never know what you’ll need when a war is on,” Mr. Evans answered wryly. “Comparing our bookshops again, Pritchard?”

The man clicked his tongue. “Bah! War hasn’t even been declared yet. And if this mess with Poland pushes us toward it, we’ll show Hitler and his ‘Nastys’ a battle that will send them scuttling back to Germany. Mark my words, this will all be over by Christmas.”

“I’ll still take my curtains.” Mr. Evans nodded toward Grace, releasing her from the need to be party to the conversation. “If nothing else, it’ll keep the bloody ARP warden from knocking at my door.”

Grace gathered the slippery fabric in her arms, climbed the ladder, and proceeded to hang the curtains while the men discussed book sales and politics.

“How the devil do you keep mice from your store?” Mr. Pritchard asked abruptly as Grace finished her task. “I’ve had issues with the buggers from the first.”

“It’s never been a problem.” Mr. Evans’s tone was becoming distracted, a clear indication he was finished with the chat. A social cue Mr. Pritchard had failed to grasp.

The man tucked his head deeper into his shoulders and scowled. “Most likely because you’re not as close to the Thames all the way out here. Not like I am at Paternoster Row.”

“You need a cat,” Grace said as she climbed down from the ladder and examined her handiwork. “Mrs. Weatherford’s son has a tabby cat who needs a home.”

Mr. Pritchard scoffed. “That meddlesome woman?”

Grace busied herself folding the ladder to hide her frown at his unkind assessment of the woman who had done so much for her. “A cat should help with the mice. I have it on good authority Mrs. Weatherford has no plans this morning and would likely appreciate the call.”

At least to the point of finding a new home for Tabby.

Mr. Pritchard nodded slowly to himself. “I see. Well, it appears I might as well see about a cat. Good day to you, Evans.”

Mr. Evans muttered some form of farewell, and Mr. Pritchard left the shop. With the curtains properly hung and a decent display in the windows, Grace turned to her next project: finding places to relocate the piles of books scattered about the floor.

The task was far larger than she’d anticipated. Whatever shelving system Mr. Evans had once incorporated was now nearly nonexistent, which meant Grace needed to create her own. Eventually. For now, she simply found places to put the discarded tomes.