Grace was the only one moving about the townhouse the following morning as Mrs. Weatherford remained in bed. The older woman’s freshly washed teacup was absent from the strainer where it usually was drying by the time Grace rose. After an attempt to bring Mrs. Weatherford tea went unanswered, Grace set a small tray by her door in the hopes it would be of some comfort.

Perhaps Grace ought to have telephoned Mr. Evans and begged off work that day, but she didn’t want to be trapped at home under the weight of her own thoughts and grief. They had been poor company through the night, burning in her chest like the fire inside the Italian café and heavy with the crushing blow of Colin’s death.

She wanted her day to be filled with ordering new books and engaging in conversation with the customers of Primrose Hill Books. The day was already warm, the air dry against her gritty eyes, which still appeared red-rimmed and swollen despite an extra swipe of mascara and a pat more face powder.

Mr. Evans looked up when she entered and immediately straightened from where he was bent over his ledger. “What is it?”

“A telegraph.” It was all Grace could muster.

His mouth set in a hard line. “Colin?”

Grace nodded.

Mr. Evans’s eyes closed behind his spectacles and stayed closed for a long time before he blinked them open. “He was too good for the likes of this bloody war.”

Grace’s throat went tight with the familiar ache of mourning.

“Go home, Miss Bennett.” The tip of his nose had gone pink. “I’ll cover your wages for the next week.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I’d like to work. Please.” Even she could hear the desperate tremble in her voice.

He studied her a long time and finally nodded. “But if you want to go, you need only ask.”

She nodded, grateful for a chance for a reprieve from her grief.

As it turned out, such melancholy could not be outrun. It followed her like a shadow, slinking at her back and creeping through her thoughts every moment her mind was not occupied. It reminded her of Colin cradling a wounded creature in his big, tender hands and how the shattering of the Italian café’s window had crashed through the damp night air. It had reminded her again and again how she could stop none of it, that she was utterly and helplessly ineffectual.

She was in the small back room for a spell, giving in to a cry when Mr. Evans came in. He stopped abruptly and stared at her, his eyes wide with uncertainty. Grace turned her face from him, wishing he would slip away as he had done the other day with the sobbing mother.