“There are many voices Hitler would quiet, especially those who are Jewish.” Mr. Evans slid the new book reverently beside the others. “It is the duty of the rest of the world to ensure they will never be silenced.” He tapped a yellow spine with Almansor in gilt at its top. “‘Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.’ Heinrich Heine isn’t Jewish, but his ideals go against what Hitler believes.” Mr. Evans pushed the safe door closed with an ominous bang. “This war is about far more than blackouts and food rationing, Miss Bennett.”

She swallowed.

People were dying to save books, to prevent ideas and people from being snuffed out.

Grace wasn’t doing nearly enough.

“I think I may join the ATS,” she said abruptly.

His large eyes blinked behind his spectacles. “I do not think that is a wise decision, Miss Bennett. Why not join the ARP as a warden instead?”

Grace frowned at the idea of being like Mr. Stokes, noting every amount of light emanating from households and gleefully telling them to be put out.

The bell at the front of the shop jangled, announcing a customer. Wordlessly, Grace left Mr. Evans with the safe as she went to the front of the store. It was no patron who awaited her, but Mrs. Nesbitt.

She wore a beige mackintosh belted at her narrow waist and a black hat set perfectly in the center of her hair, which was pulled back as severely as before. Her mouth was an angry slash of red in her hard-set features.

“You are just the wretch I came to see,” Mrs. Nesbitt said, her words nipped out with arrogant precision.

The aggression of her demeanor was like a slap and rendered Grace momentarily at a loss for words. “I...I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

“Don’t play innocent with me, you minx.” Mrs. Nesbitt stormed into the shop, her hard, black heels striking the floor like jackboots. “Look how organized this is. How clean. How perfectly laid out by section.” She jabbed a finger at a sign marked History by way of demonstration. “And displayed.” She slid a side glare at the children’s table set artfully with a colorful array of books.

She didn’t bother to hide the accusation icing over her words. “How curious that your orders at Simpkin Marshalls are increasing as the rest of us struggle to sell our usual stock?”

Grace’s boldness in dealing with the sharp-tongued woman previously was gone, washed away by the open hostility and cemented by the need to uphold the face of Primrose Hill Books within its walls.

Grace dug her nails into her patience and clung on. “With all due respect, Mrs. Nesbitt,” she replied levelly, “you are not the only shop to use displays in such a fashion, nor are you the only one to label the sections.”

“Your display is quite purposefully styled,” Mrs. Nesbitt snapped.