Only days before, the war had been a true bore—a buildup to nothing. Yet now, its reality struck them where it caused the most hurt.

Already the sacrifice had been great. Yet it was only the start of so much more to come.

EIGHT

Despite more young men disappearing from the streets of London, patrons continued to frequent Primrose Hill Books. The housewives seeking a new novel, the elderly men who considered the rows of political books with shrewd expressions, the men and women too young for war and too old to be sent away to the country for safety, all of them occupied the shop and Grace was all too happy to lose herself in the aiding of their selections. What’s more, she found the customers who arrived in the newly organized store stayed twice as long and purchased three times more books than before.

What a difference it made when they could find what it was they sought. All except a retired professor who groused at the overly clean shelves, remarking that it lacked the authenticity of the haphazard chaos of their previous sorting system. His obvious appreciation for the shop’s former state brought a smile to Grace’s lips as it made her recall George’s affection for the old, dusty shop.

She’d even managed to convince Mr. Evans to engage in the National Book token system. It was a marvelous advertising opportunity where one could purchase the card as a gift and the recipient could redeem it for any book of their choosing. Grace had learned of the ingenious system from a trip to Foyle’s, the six-story bookseller who touted secondhand books and notable teas with celebrity guests. Once she’d seen the tokens there, she realized they were everywhere, which put Mr. Evans’s shop at a severe disadvantage.

Until now.

With Christmas soon upon them, Primrose Hill Books sold several dozen the first day Grace put out the advert announcing they had book tokens.

“I’ll give it to you, Miss Bennett,” Mr. Evans admitted in a grudging tone after the customer he’d rung up had departed. “That was a jolly good idea you had with those book tickets.”

She bit back a grin at his habit of calling them tickets rather than tokens.

“I’m pleased they’ve worked so well.” She tied a piece of twine around a bit of folded silver tissue and pulled it apart to make a decorative ball. Perfect for the new winter scene she’d assembled in the window.

“December is nearly over.” He made a note in the small ledger Grace kept beside the register, marking the sales with the same efficiency she’d begun. When he finished, he set the pencil—a proper one he didn’t need to pinch between his fingertips—neatly to the side and tossed a torn piece of paper into the dust bin near the counter.