It was as though Grace had tipped fully into another world and was just now finding her way back into reality. She laughed, feeling somewhat foolish. “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you come in. I didn’t even notice the room had grown dark.”

Yet even as she chatted through supper and ate the tender chicken Mrs. Weatherford roasted for their meal, Grace found her thoughts turning back to Edmond Dantés. More than that, she recalled his experiences with the same poignancy as if she herself had lived through them rather than the character in the book.

This was clearly what George had meant when he described how he felt about reading.

That night, she stayed up with the blanket covering her head and a torch illuminating the pages as she fell back into Edmond’s story. After every chapter, she swore to herself it would be the last until her eyes finally fell closed, blending the images in her mind with those of her dreams.

The next morning, she startled awake, bleary-eyed and nearly late. After a particularly unsweetened cup of tea and bite of toast with barely a scrape of butter, Grace bundled up against the harsh cold for the trek to Primrose Hill Books.

The quick walk that had seemed so brief and pleasant in the summer and fall had become grueling in the winter. The wind pushed at her, making her forward progress all the more difficult as a deep wet cold sank into her bones.

She was nearly to Farringdon Station, lost in reliving what she’d read in The Count of Monte Cristo, when a peal of laughter pulled her attention to a side street. Two children bundled against the dismal weather raced back and forth in what appeared to be a game of tag, their cheeks red from the nip in the air and their laughter fogging in front of their mouths.

Once those giggles had been ubiquitous, blending into the roar of traffic and chatter of passing people. It struck Grace suddenly how the sound of children had become foreign.

Not all mothers had sent their children away to the country, of course, but with so many who had, there were few left to be seen.

And yet, the children playing were not the only ones she spotted that morning. As she continued on toward the bookshop, she came upon several little girls whispering together with a toy pram holding their dolls.

Were children returning?

Buoyed by the possibility this might mean an end to the war, Grace pushed into the store and immediately addressed Mr. Evans. “Have you seen the children? It looks as though they’re returning.”

Mr. Evans waved emphatically, nearly upsetting a jar of sharpened pencils. “Shut the door, Miss Bennett. It’s cold as brass monkeys out there.”