Mr. Stokes had always been one to amplify the gory details. Only in this particular case, she didn’t think he was exaggerating. And while she’d never offered much complaint before, his gratuitous attention to the gruesomeness raked over her nerves.

Not noticing her silence, he continued. “A shelter was bombed too. On Columbia Road. A bomb fell straight down the ventilation shaft and...” He spread his hands slowly apart and imitated the rumble of an explosion. “Whole families killed off all at once.”

“Mr. Stokes,” she said sharply. “How can a veteran such as yourself speak so cavalierly about the dead after the things you’ve no doubt seen?”

He frowned and shook his head. “I’m no veteran. They wouldn’t take me in the Great War.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders, his mustache twitching. “Said I had a weak heart.”

A weak heart.

If they’d bothered to look deeper, Grace was certain they’d discover he had none at all.

A sharp wail cut through the air suddenly, the cry announcing yet another slew of bombers. Her blood ran cold with pure terror.

In the bombing the previous night, she’d been safely tucked inside the Andy. But wardens didn’t lock themselves inside when there were people to protect.

No, they patrolled their designated sector, on the lookout for bombs and damage that might have been done so they could administer first aid to those who were injured. And help locate the ones who didn’t survive.

She would be exposed there in the street, not even covered by the thin sheet of the Anderson shelter’s crimped aluminum.

Vulnerable.

“Come now, don’t tell me you’re frightened.” Mr. Stokes clapped a hand on Grace’s shoulder.

She shot him a hard look, but it did little to chasten him. Instead, he laughed and shook his head. “This is why women shouldn’t be allowed to volunteer for a job clearly meant for men.”

She stiffened at the offense, a sharp retort on her tongue, but he’d already wandered off toward the stream of residents exiting their homes. He waved his arm as though directing traffic, shepherding the frightened masses from the Borough of Islington toward their designated shelter.

She gritted her teeth and recalled her training. She knew what to say. What to do. She need not allow the Nazis to get the best of her.

The siren cut short and voices filled the air, asking any number of questions all at once. Where were they to go? How long would the raid last? Would it be quite as long as the previous night?

Would they be bombed?

All questions neither Grace nor Mr. Stokes could answer.

But there was something about their worried faces and the way their voices trembled with panic. It reminded her of why she was there, to help the masses in their time of need. To be the example of calm when they were frightened.