“Thank you for what you said last night.” Mrs. Weatherford self-consciously touched a hand to her hair. “You were right about Colin not wanting me to be like that. I can do this.” She swallowed hard. “For him.”

Grace embraced Mrs. Weatherford, holding the other woman tightly. “We both can.”

Mrs. Weatherford nodded against her shoulder. They spent the remainder of the day cleaning the house and working in the garden, now filled with beans, cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers.

Through it all, a hazy cloud settled over the East End, a shroud to the many who had died.

Midway through the day came yet another air raid, lasting nearly three hours. Only this time, the noise of the planes was accompanied by the boom of the anti-aircraft guns.

Gossip hummed in the neighborhood louder than the bombers’ far-off engines. It was said hundreds died in the attack on the East End. Many had been left homeless, and the fires from the night before still blazed out of control.

Grace listened attentively to each piece of news, stitching them together in her mind like a macabre quilt in an attempt to create a whole story. No matter how much she heard or even how many times it was repeated, she craved more. She was not alone in this desperation for information. Every wireless set in London was tuned to the broadcasts, and newspaper shelves were soon stripped bare.

That evening, Grace was on the ARP schedule to work the night shift with Mr. Stokes, starting at 7:30 and ending at 8:00 the next morning. Though it was only three days a week and Mr. Evans allowed her to come in later the following days, it often left Grace tired.

That night, however, she was beyond exhausted, her mind as gritty as her eyelids. Regardless, she would ensure she was sharp for her post. Of all nights to watch for visible lights, this would be one of the most important after what had happened to the East End.

“It’s still burning,” Mr. Stokes said under his breath, squinting in the distance where a subtle red glow flickered. “I’ve a mate who works for the AFS near there; he said the scene was like something out of hell.”

Grace did not envy the Auxiliary Fire Service, who had the extraordinary task of putting out such a blaze.

She followed his stare. “I can’t imagine how awful it must be.”

“Terrible,” Mr. Stokes answered. “Harry said hundreds of people died, some blasted so hard by the bombs, their clothes were ripped clean off.”

Grace stopped walking, unable to even fathom something so awful.

“Pieces of bodies were all over the street.” Mr. Stokes spread his hand through the air. “They had to keep stopping to clear away bloody bits from the road so they could drive on.”