With great apprehension, Grace crept toward the nearest head of limp lettuce and lifted a leaf with the point of her knife. Thick, brown things wriggled and coiled among the base of the plant like plump sausages, near bursting from their gluttony. An especially fat one dropped from the leaf above and landed with a plop on the flat of the blade.

Grace gasped in horror and leapt backward, dropping the knife.

Some hero she was.

Mrs. Weatherford ducked out from the Andy with a leaflet in hand. “It’s right here. They’re called...” She squinted at the page. “Cutworms. Heavens, that sounds terrifying.” Her gaze darted over the page. As she read, her mouth slid down her face in a disgusted grimace.

“What is it?” Grace tried to peer at the leaflet. “How are we rid of them?”

Mrs. Weatherford grimaced. “We’re to cut them in half, squish them or rip them apart.”

They both scowled in horror and turned toward the lettuce. The knife lay before the plant Grace had been inspecting, its blade glinting in the sun.

“Maybe we ought to stick to beans?” Grace suggested.

“I’ve never been partial to lettuce myself,” Mrs. Weatherford replied. “I’ll go to the chemist to see if he can suggest something to kill those foul creatures and we can be done with the lot of it.”

The chemist did indeed have something, a white powdery substance he warned must be washed thoroughly from the leaves before consumption, not that there was anything left of it after the cutworms finally succumbed to the poison.

In the second week of June, Italy joined the war in support of Germany, and the unspent energy crackling over London found a source to exact its potency. Grace and Mr. Stokes were patrolling the darkened streets of London later that night when an efficient clip of footsteps was heard across the street followed by a scuffle and a cry.

Adrenaline shot through her and drew her attention toward the scene. Her eyes searched the dark. She withdrew the hooded lamp from her pocket, a bell-shaped thing that cast a muted light on the ground. They didn’t use it often, however, as Mr. Stokes insisted they maintain their night vision.

The blackout sadly brought out the worst in people, presenting too many temptations for theft and assault by the sinister sort. Mr. Stokes put himself between Grace and the sound as they waited to see if they might be required to intervene with their limited authority and sharp whistles.

During her time in the ARP, Grace had learned to read movement in the darkness by the subtle shadows cast by the moon. Though it was only a sliver that night, she could make out two police officers and a man with a suitcase beside a woman.

It was no robbery at all, but an arrest.

The man’s words were spoken rapidly, not in English, but what sounded like Italian.