As a swarm of planes buzzed overhead, Susan felt her shoulder muscles tighten. But the grinding of engines quickly disappeared. No explosion. No gunfire. Just the thrum of rain. She exhaled, then gazed at the candle. “Do you think London will burn?”

Ollie glanced at Bertie, sunk deep into his chair with his eyes closed, then turned to Susan. “The rain will help.”

She looked at him. “I meant, do you think there will be anything left?”

Ollie paused, then said, “If Londoners are even half as resilient as you and Bertie, I believe there will always be a London.”

“I needed to hear that.” She smiled, smoothed her skirt, and returned her attention to the candle.

“Susan,” Ollie said.

She turned to him, her shadow stretching over the floor.

“I was thinking about this afternoon and . . .”

Bertie snorted. A book, facedown on his chest, rose and fell as snores filled the room.

“He tires in the evenings,” Susan said. She stood, walked to Bertie’s chair, and touched his arm. “Perhaps you should go to bed.”

Bertie snuffled and opened his eyes. “I was reading.”

Susan pointed to the book.

He wiped his face. “It’s difficult to see with candlelight.”

“Would you like me to read to you?” Susan asked.

“I’m knackered,” Bertie said. “I believe I’ll go to bed.” He stood, wobbled, and grunted with pain.

Ollie went to Bertie, preparing to catch him if the old man’s knees gave out.

“Let us help you,” Susan said.

Bertie shook his head, then placed a hand on Susan’s shoulder. “Tomorrow our pigeons will change the course of this bloody war.”

Susan felt her confidence reawaken, like an ember receiving oxygen. She watched him climb the stairs, taking breaks to catch his breath. As his bedroom door squeaked shut, she admired her grandfather’s moxie. She had no doubt that Bertie could have been a field general in his younger years. The men in the trenches would have followed a man like Bertie, giving them faith when there was no hope at all.

“Bertie’s a good man,” Ollie said.

“I’m lucky to have him.”

Ollie nodded. “You’re welcome to go to bed.”

Susan looked at the blackout curtains covering the window. “I can’t sleep when they’re out there.” She crossed the room and retrieved a thin cardboard box from under the sofa. “I assume you can keep a secret.”

Ollie joined her on the sofa, the box placed between them.

She opened the lid and placed a ball of yarn and knitting needles on her lap, then held up a piece of cream-colored fabric. “It’s a sweater, a Christmas present for Grandfather.”

Ollie looked at the tube of material.

“More accurately, the arm of a sweater.”

“He’ll love it,” Ollie said.

“I didn’t have any dye.”

“It’s perfect.”

Susan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and picked up the needles.