His gaze flicked to Viv and Grace, and his cheeks flushed as he offered a shy smile. He was a quiet young man, given often to introspection that made you wonder what went on behind his sharp blue eyes.

Knowing Colin, he was most likely devising a new way to feed a lion or mend a bird’s broken wing.

“Oh, it was just Miss Gibbons calling to complain about the grocer.” Mrs. Weatherford picked up a long knife, sliding it through the suspended sausages in their pillowy bed of pudding. “Apparently there’s nearly no sugar to be had. I tell you, these people out there buying up the shop...” She tsked. “They should be ashamed.”

She set the knife aside and smiled brightly at the three of them. “Onion gravy, anyone?”

As they ate, Grace considered Colin once more. He was a good man, polite and genuinely kind.

He performed all the tasks around the house from replacing spent bulbs to doing minor repairs. Aside from caring for the animals at Harrods, his chief concern was ensuring they were all comfortable and safe.

But given the chance, would he want to go to war?

Most men did, it seemed.

Why anyone would eagerly put themselves in a war zone where one could be shot was beyond her. But then, she’d never been brave. Not like the men willing to trade their lives for the safety of those in Britain.

Thoughts of such courage filled her mind as she crawled into the brass bed that night and pulled the quilt over her shoulders amid the blackness of the room. Compared to such heroism, she was little more than a coward.

It was a deficiency she ought to face head-on, as her mother had always encouraged her to do, by speaking up for herself, by not allowing others to bully her. And she meant to. Eventually.

Just as soon as she set Primrose Hill Books to rights.

The next morning, she arrived at the bookshop nearly ten minutes early with the list of her ideas in hand. She burst through the front door, and the bell announced her arrival with its shrill cry.

Mr. Evans lifted his head and gave her a frown.

She winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to open the door so abruptly.”

He continued to frown at her.

“Truly,” she said. “It’s just that I’m so excited for the ideas I...have...”

He put his hand on a brown-wrapped parcel with a note atop it and slid it toward her. “This is for you,” he said solemnly.

Grace glanced down at the envelope with “Miss Bennett” written in a scrolling hand over its cream-colored surface.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Evans shuffled away from the counter, leaving behind a few scattered bits of paper and the nub of an abandoned pencil.

What could he possibly be sorry for?