Nonetheless, for Grace that time had passed in a frenzy of organizing books, shifting shelves and more cleaning than she ever thought possible. The work had kept her so busy for so long, one day she realized somehow it had become November.

Primrose Hill Books was far from perfect, but Grace still straightened with pride every time she walked into the store. Her accomplishment showed itself in the open, welcome space she’d created. New tables were set in the middle of the shop with the books facing the entrance to greet patrons, their genres clearly marked in black print on white pasteboard.

In truth, only about a quarter of the books in Primrose Hill Books were on display, for those were all she’d been able to sort through. That amount, however, was still considerable in light of Mr. Evans’s massive stock. The remaining inventory was piled in the back room, making it almost impossible to move in the already cramped space, and piled along the second floor, which had been blocked off while she sorted through the mess.

She carried a box down from the small spiral staircase one chilly morning when a ding announced a new customer. Quickly, she set the box aside in an alcove at the foot of the stairs, reattached the “Do Not Enter” sign to the railing and went to the front.

Mr. Pritchard skulked around the entryway, his head tucked low in his large jacket. Behind him, as had now become usual, was Tabby, trotting at his heels.

“Good day, Mr. Pritchard.” Grace smiled at him. “If you’re looking for Mr. Evans, he’s in the back by the history section.”

The older man scrunched his face as he read the signs. “These are new.”

“I put them up a few weeks ago.”

Mr. Pritchard scowled. “I hope they work better for you than this cat does for me.” He slid a glance toward Tabby, who was contentedly cleaning his paws. “The cat would sooner catch a nap than a mouse.”

In response to this, Tabby rubbed one tufted paw over his ear and face.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Grace said. “But he seems quite fond of you.”

“Doesn’t help my mouse problem.” Mr. Pritchard tutted. “It appears you’ve been rather busy, Miss Basset.”

She didn’t bother to correct him on her name as he squinted intently at a sign on the counter. It was one of the suggestions she’d made when speaking to George, stating “Lighten Your Blackout with a Good Book.”

She thought of him often, usually with a twinge of guilt at not having read more of The Count of Monte Cristo. In all of her wayward attempts, she had either been too distracted to concentrate, too tired to stay awake, or even a bit of both. And there it had remained on her bedside table, only several pages into the first chapter.