The rest of London, however, hummed with energy in anticipation of a war that now seemed certain to strike their soil. It seemed a strange thing, to hope for action even after Dunkirk, but the “bore war” had seemed much like a freshly wound watch with no hands.

Now something was finally going to happen.

It was a sunny Saturday when Grace finally brought herself to remove the children’s book display from the front of the shop. With so many little ones relocated once more to the country, the prime window location would be best spent on more enticing reads for the adults who had remained behind. After she left the shop that afternoon, however, she didn’t immediately return home.

Instead, she basked in the brilliant sun beaming down on her and enjoyed a seat outside at a café for tea and a confection. Restaurants followed different rations than the citizens of Britain and were allowed slightly more, meaning the tea was richer and sweeter, as was the pastry, nearly masking the margarine. Nearly.

But the effort didn’t offer her the cheer that she’d hoped. Instead, it made her miss having Viv opposite her, laughing and sharing the latest gossip from Harrods. And it made her ache for Mrs. Weatherford, who couldn’t bring herself to enjoy such a fine afternoon, let alone any of life’s other pleasures.

And how could she when Colin was dead?

Determined not to fall prey to sadness on such a fine day, Grace found herself at King Square Gardens. Vendors stood by their wheeled carts painted in glossy, bright colors to attract patrons to their goods, and people lounged about on benches and canvas sling chairs set alongside the emerald green grass.

All around the park were patches of vegetables as part of the Dig for Victory campaign, clusters of climbing sweet peas replacing the jasmine, and cabbages where roses had once bloomed.

Grace settled into an available sling chair, the thick fabric warm from the sun, and tilted her head back indulgently. The air smelled sweetly of grass mixed with a spice of sausage from a nearby vendor, and the shuffles of footsteps and light conversation melted into the background in a soothing ambience.

All at once, the peaceful quiet was interrupted by the nagging wail of the air raid siren.

She remained where she was, reconciled to endure the blaring annoyance, as commonplace as sandbags at that point.

At the beginning of the war, the warbling cry had made her heart leap into her throat. Now, it was simply a nuisance.

Several people grudgingly rose from their chairs to seek shelter, though they were indeed the minority. Most remained where they were, luxuriating in the sunshine.

After so many false air raids, the warning had become like the little boy crying wolf.