“London is being bombed.” Grace tried to keep the fear from her voice as she went to her mother’s friend. “We must go to the shelter at once.”

But Mrs. Weatherford wouldn’t go, preferring to stay where she sat, her stare distant with despondency. After several failed attempts to nudge her to safety, Grace left her in the parlor and stood on the front steps of the townhouse, watching the German planes. If they drew closer, she would make sure Mrs. Weatherford took shelter, even if she had to drag the older woman.

But the planes didn’t come closer. Eventually, the residents of Britton Street joined her on their front steps, all watching in silence as the German planes continued their relentless assault through the burning sky.

Through it all, Grace could not stop thinking of the people. Had the residents there avoided the shelters as so many in the rest of London had? Would shelters even protect them in the face of such an onslaught?

How many would die?

She shuddered to even consider the casualties.

At long last, the rumble of falling bombs ceased and the all clear sounded. Grace turned to go into the townhouse once more and found Mrs. Nesbitt standing rigidly on the stairs next door. She lifted a brow at Grace. “Well, that’s that, I suppose.”

Grace said nothing and went into the townhouse to find Mrs. Weatherford in the Morris chair, exactly where she had left her.

That night, Grace wasn’t scheduled to perform her ARP work, doing so only three times a week. But before she could even prepare for bed, the wail of the air raid siren came again.

A spike of adrenaline shot through Grace, and this time she didn’t take no for an answer from Mrs. Weatherford. After opening the windows, cutting the mains and filling the tub, Grace forced Mrs. Weatherford down to the Andy. They stumbled in the near darkness, upsetting pots and gardening supplies on their way into the shelter.

The shelter smelled of wet metal, earth and disuse. More a shed than a place to remain for any length of time. The siren’s call cut short, and silence filled the emptiness in its place. It was an expectant kind of quiet, one that promised more of what London had taken earlier that day. Every muscle in Grace’s body remained tense, and her skin felt as though its fit was suddenly too tight.

She struck a match and lit the candle she’d brought along with their gas masks. The flame was small, but filled the cramped interior of the Andy like an electric light. In the distance came the familiar drone of planes, their ominous one-note tone amplified by the metal frame so it practically vibrated in Grace’s chest.

Again came the thumps that meant more bombs. It was all Grace could do to keep from flinching with each distant whump.