Still, Grace hated the idea of Viv being so painfully bored.

“They’ve added white paint to the curbs.” Viv smoothed the lapel on her suit, yet another new dress she’d sewn. There had been at least one every two weeks or so, not only for her, but for Grace and Mrs. Weatherford as well. “And I heard ARP wardens wear luminescent capes now.”

Grace stirred her tea, and the silt at the bottom kicked up into a small whirlpool. “Yes, and still over a thousand people have been hit by cars. It’s so dark at night, dock men are falling into the water and drowning.”

A flicker of lightning flashed outside the windows. Two months ago, they might have both jumped for fear it was a bomb. Now, they remained as they were without even a stutter to their pulses.

Viv was right; there was nothing going on with the war—or rather, as it was now being called, the bore war.

“I think...” Viv tapped a glossy red nail against the curved lip of her teacup. “I’m considering joining the ATS.”

Grace dropped her spoon where it clinked against the side of her cup. The Auxiliary Territorial Service was a women’s branch in the British Army, one that would require Viv to attend training and most likely be assigned somewhere other than London. “Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Viv lifted a shoulder. “The women are being used as clerks and shopkeeps from what I hear. I’d be doing something similar to what I’m doing now, but at least I’d be helping end all of this.” She waved her hands in the air to imply the entirety of their current situation. “I’m ready for the war to be done, so we can go to cinemas and dances without fear of being run over on our way home. And maybe meet a handsome stranger once all the men come back from war, perhaps even go on a date. I want to stop worrying about the idea that bombs may drop or that we’ll be subject to rationing. I want life to be normal again.”

“But you love Harrods,” Grace protested.

“It’s exciting.” Viv dropped her hands to her lap. “Or at least it was in the beginning. So few women care about fashion right now. Those who do still come in tell me of their struggles. They’re all so anxious about their men who have been sent off to war and their children being cared for by strangers in the country. Some of the letters these women receive are just terribly sad. Little ones wanting to come home, swearing to be good so they aren’t sent away again.” She looked down at her hands. “I just want it all to be done.”

The quiet of the house on a rainy day was shattered suddenly by a choked cry.