It was like waking from a dream and realizing you were in the onset of a nightmare.

Somewhere outside, a cloud passed over the sun and cast a shadow of gray over the shop.

“I only hope you won’t be foolish about this nonsense with Mr. Anderson.” Mr. Evans gave her a stern look, the way one’s father might. “Every girl is rushing to marry before the men can be sent off to war.” His mouth flattened in a chastising gesture. “Keep your head about you.”

Grace suppressed the urge to squirm where she stood. Was he truly giving her relationship advice? “I don’t plan to wed anytime soon,” she replied slowly.

He grunted, though she couldn’t tell if that meant he believed her or not, and disappeared down the aisle. As the afternoon went on, Grace found only two more books from the list he’d given her, a search that was decidedly less enjoyable without Mr. Anderson.

When it was finally time for her to leave for the day, it wasn’t Britton Street she headed for. No, this time she was determined to find her way to Paternoster Row to see how the rest of London touted her bookshops.

SIX

All throughout Paternoster Row, wide windows peeked out from multiple shops, showcasing the books being sold within. Gilt letters adorned the glass with store names while painted posters advertised sale prices meant to lure in customers with a bargain. The front displays varied from those that were artfully arranged to piles of books stacked in no particular order, all but blocking the interior. If nothing else, perhaps the latter didn’t require blackout curtains. After all, who needed three layers of fabric when one had stacks of books five deep?

Grace strode along the raised pavement of the narrow street, pressing close to the tall buildings to avoid the black-painted bollards meant to keep vehicles from edging onto the walkway.

Between the shops, vendors were scattered about with their wheeled carts, selling everything from lemonade to sandwiches, and the greasy scent of fish and chips lingered in the air.

She had been admiring the artfully arranged display of F. G. Longman’s large square windows when a familiar face caught her attention. Standing in the doorway of a store on the opposite side of the street was a wide-shouldered, beak-nosed man with skinny legs and a tabby cat close at his heels.

Mr. Pritchard.

Before she could worry that he might spot her, he turned abruptly and disappeared inside a shop, Pritchard & Potts, pausing only to hold the door for Tabby to slip in behind him. The name of his establishment had been painted in a bold hand on the window that had nothing but blackness on the other side.

Tar.

Grace suddenly found herself grateful for Mrs. Weatherford’s overabundance of dark fabric and the fine curtains she’d been able to make for Primrose Hill Books.