Grace gathered the slippery fabric in her arms, climbed the ladder, and proceeded to hang the curtains while the men discussed book sales and politics.
“How the devil do you keep mice from your store?” Mr. Pritchard asked abruptly as Grace finished her task. “I’ve had issues with the buggers from the first.”
“It’s never been a problem.” Mr. Evans’s tone was becoming distracted, a clear indication he was finished with the chat. A social cue Mr. Pritchard had failed to grasp.
The man tucked his head deeper into his shoulders and scowled. “Most likely because you’re not as close to the Thames all the way out here. Not like I am at Paternoster Row.”
“You need a cat,” Grace said as she climbed down from the ladder and examined her handiwork. “Mrs. Weatherford’s son has a tabby cat who needs a home.”
Mr. Pritchard scoffed. “That meddlesome woman?”
Grace busied herself folding the ladder to hide her frown at his unkind assessment of the woman who had done so much for her. “A cat should help with the mice. I have it on good authority Mrs. Weatherford has no plans this morning and would likely appreciate the call.”
At least to the point of finding a new home for Tabby.
Mr. Pritchard nodded slowly to himself. “I see. Well, it appears I might as well see about a cat. Good day to you, Evans.”
Mr. Evans muttered some form of farewell, and Mr. Pritchard left the shop. With the curtains properly hung and a decent display in the windows, Grace turned to her next project: finding places to relocate the piles of books scattered about the floor.
The task was far larger than she’d anticipated. Whatever shelving system Mr. Evans had once incorporated was now nearly nonexistent, which meant Grace needed to create her own. Eventually. For now, she simply found places to put the discarded tomes.
She’d become so engrossed in her task, Mr. Evans had to remind her on several occasions that she had stayed beyond her allotted hours. Each time she’d put him off, saying she was nearly done. And each time she thought she truly was, only to discover more stacks.
A low rumble of thunder caught her attention, and Mr. Evans appeared before her with an umbrella in hand. “Miss Bennett, go home. The shop is closing and it’s begun to rain.”
She looked up from a row of spines pressed so tightly together, no book could possibly fit between them despite the twenty or so more she still had to put away. They weren’t in any order. Yet. But at least they were off the floor.
She glanced toward the window and found the curtains drawn. The blackout was clearly in effect.
Had it really become so late?
“Stay home tomorrow,” Mr. Evans said. “You’ve put in far too much work for one day.”
“But yesterday—”
“You were supposed to leave this afternoon, and it is now night.” Mr. Evans pressed the brolly toward her once more. “If Mrs. Weatherford calls one more time for you, she’ll have my head.”
Ah, there it was then. Mrs. Weatherford. No doubt Grace’s delay had caused her to worry.
Grace accepted the umbrella and quickly gathered her things. Mr. Evans followed her to the front and opened the door.
Blackness met her on the other side, as stark as it was deep—an endless sea of nothing.
Grace blinked as if to clear her vision, but it did no good against the true and complete darkness. She hadn’t realized the blackout would be this all-consuming.
“I should walk you home,” Mr. Evans said, more to himself than to her.
“Think nothing of it.” Grace notched her chin a little higher, the way Viv did when putting her confidence on full display. Though in Grace’s case, it was mere bravado. “It will take me less than ten minutes. We needn’t both end up drenched.”
He frowned and opened his mouth to say something when a sharp whistle pierced the air.
“Put out that light,” someone called from the distance. The self-important authority to the tone suggested an Air Raid Precautions warden, the volunteer service made up of neighbors who monitored blackout compliance.
“Good night, Mr. Evans.” Grace slipped out of the shop as she snapped open the brolly.
Still Mr. Evans waited, holding the door open for her.
“Put it out, Mr. Evans,” the ARP warden shouted again, this time closer.
Finally, he let the door fall closed and a thick blanket of darkness fell over Grace. It seemed to press against her eyes, making her strain to see something—anything—and failing miserably.
Usually there were people about, cars with bright headlights slicing through the pitch-black and lampposts with a golden glow in a radius beneath. But not now. Not during a blackout.