Already rumors swirled of coastline evacuations as the children of London were once more removed to the country.

While the presentation of Pigeon Pie at Primrose Hill Books was an enormous failure, copies of What Hitler Wants were nearly impossible to keep on the shelves. But people desperate for information on Hitler’s logic were not the only patrons who still managed to trickle through their belled door. Housewives came in periodically too, anxious over their husbands who fought in France and melancholic at having to once more send their children away. They were women desperate for distraction, a way to occupy their minds so they could forget their heavy hearts.

One particular woman, a young brunette around Grace’s age, lingered in the shop for well over an hour. Initially she’d declined assistance, but when she remained in a corner by the classic fiction for a considerable amount of time, Grace was compelled to go to her once more.

“Are you certain there’s nothing I can offer assistance with?” Grace asked.

The woman startled and sniffed hard, turning her head away. “I’m sorry. I...I shouldn’t...” A sob burst from her, abrupt and unexpected.

Mr. Evans, who had been in the next aisle over, scuttled quickly to the opposite side of the store, leaving Grace with the crying customer.

Most of the housewives who came into Evans’s seeking books were stony-faced, hiding their hurt behind a mask of decorum. None had shown their feelings so openly.

It was a painful thing to behold and tugged at a deep place in Grace’s chest.

“Don’t trouble yourself over it.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, which she offered to the woman. “These are hard times for us all.”

The brunette accepted the handkerchief with an apologetic smile, the flush of her face nearly as red as her lipstick. “Forgive me.” She dabbed at her eyes. “My husband is in France and I...” She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together in an apparent effort to squelch a new wave of despair. “I sent my daughter away two days ago.” Her large brown eyes met Grace’s, her lashes spiky with tears. “Do you have children?”

“No,” Grace said softly.

The woman looked miserably at the handkerchief, now stained with mascara, lipstick and the dampness of her sorrow. “I didn’t send her away with the first round. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t bear to. But with what is happening with France...and Hitler being so close...”