“Heaven help us all if he hasn’t.” Mr. Evans took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose where the weight of his eyewear had left permanent indents in his aged skin.

The door chimed the merry announcement of a new visitor, a shrill, overly bright sound in the ominous quiet that had descended. A delivery boy from Simpkin Marshalls came in, a large box held in skinny arms.

It was the recent order of Pigeon Pie, the political satire of the “bore war” by Nancy Mitford.

Grace could have groaned.

Such a book would be in terribly poor taste now.

She’d wanted to order the book before its release several days prior, but Mr. Evans had vacillated on the idea, stating he was more of a classic book seller than a trend follower. Finally he’d relented, and now that risk was about to explode in Grace’s face.

The state of war escalated in the following days, and as expected, the book was a flop. Sales went down as people found themselves plastered to their sofas at home before their wireless sets, desperate for any news.

And little of it was anything good.

The only bright spot was when Chamberlain stepped down as prime minister, his perpetually defensive tactics tiring and now dangerous, and the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, assumed his place. Much to the profound relief of all of Great Britain.

War was on everyone’s lips, weighing heavily on all their minds, consuming conversation and occupying every aspect of their lives. The details carried on the threads of such gossip were horrifying. The worst of which was the bombing of Rotterdam, Holland, which had been rumored to have killed over thirty thousand people.

Mr. Stokes had informed Grace of that terrible figure with an edge of awed glee in his voice. Something was finally happening in the unending stretch of an actionless war, and it lit a fire inside him. His approach to people’s misdemeanors became practically militant, and he constantly reminded Grace of her duties should they be bombed.

The curious thing to all of it, however, was how delightful the weather had been. It was an odd thing to note, of course, but never had Grace seen such a beautiful May. The sun shone, the skies were clear and brilliantly blue and the garden’s sprouted shoots unfurled into healthy, broad leaves and flowers that promised vegetables soon.

The sandbags bricking up public shelters and call-up adverts had long since faded into the background of her awareness. Now, there was only birdsong and sunny days. It was surreal to imagine that nearby, allied countries were under attack with lives being lost daily to bombs and battle.

But that lovely May was a mirage, a pretty, fragile shell waiting to shatter the reality of their world. Hitler’s troops had torn through France and were poised on the opposite side of the Channel.

Britain was next.