Her breath caught.
She slid her finger beneath the flap and drew out the neatly typed letter within.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I’m writing you to recommend Miss Grace Bennett’s services to you. She has been employed at my shop, Primrose Hill Books, for the last six months. In that time, she has taken my cluttered shop and turned it into something quite elegant, thereby increasing its popularity, and sales, tremendously.
Miss Bennett is a polite young woman with immeasurable compassion and a keen intelligence. She’s rather brilliant, actually.
If you don’t hire her, you’re a fool. And I’m a greater fool for letting her go.
My bookshop has never been in better hands, my own included.
Sincerely,
Mr. Percival Evans
Grace could hear his voice in her head, his tone growing more vehement toward the end.
My bookshop has never been in better hands.
The wreckage around her said otherwise. Carefully, she folded the letter back into the envelope and locked it back in the safe.
She would be letting everyone down without the shop. The people who relied on her to sell their wares, her customers who came seeking the distraction of books, not to mention herself. Mr. Evans.
She had lost everything.
TWENTY-ONE
There was nothing for it but to go through the debris and see what could be salvaged. Grace clicked off her torch to save the battery and left the small back room, careful to avoid tripping on any fallen items. Of which there were many.
Books, glass, bits of shelves that had splintered apart. All beneath a fine sifting of dust and ash.
The slim figure of a man filled the doorway of the main entrance. She slipped back into the shadows, regretting not having at least had her ARP whistle on her.
It was far too common for looters to slink into ruined shops and homes, especially after heavy raids like the one they’d just experienced. It was a sad thing when a family returned to a ruined home to find their remaining belongings had already been picked over. Most of the pilfering fiends scared away easily after being called out. But some were bold and remained where they stood.
“What are you doing here?” Grace said sharply, hoping the man might retreat.
The figure didn’t move.
She wrapped her hands tighter around the torch. If nothing else, she could hit him about the head if he came too close.
“Miss Bennett?” Mr. Stokes replied. “Is that you?”
Grace exhaled a sigh of relief and stepped into the open where he could see her.
The electric mains had been turned off prior to her departure the night before, as always. And good thing too, else the shop might have gone up in flames when it caught fire. She would have to assess the damage to the lights before turning them back on.
Mr. Stokes walked into the shop, wearing a jacket and trousers, tiptoeing about to avoid stepping on books as he made his way toward her. “They told me the bookshop had been struck.” He looked around and frowned. “I’m so sorry.”
“Is your home safe?” Grace asked.
He nodded. “Many didn’t fare as well. It was one of the worst nights we’ve had. They estimate the attack on London last night left over a thousand dead, God save their souls. Double that are injured, and blazes still being put out.” He glanced up, squinting with assessment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “It’s a good thing this place is standing at all. Some of it might still be saved.”
There was a hopefulness to his tone Grace didn’t share.
“Thank you for coming by to check on the shop, Mr. Stokes.” She looked gratefully at him, realizing that he had unexpectedly become something of a friend in the last few months. They’d been through bombings together, seen death together, saved lives together.
She bent to retrieve a book at her feet, its cover splayed open and its pages bent. Before straightening, she collected three more books, pausing to shake a tinkling of shattered glass from them first.
When she stood, he arched a brow. “You don’t truly intend to handle this all on your own, do you?”
Grace regarded the mess in front of her. Books were torn and battered, shelves were in pieces, the history section pasteboard dangled by only one corner and was covered in a smattering of dirt.
When she turned back to Mr. Stokes, she found him standing in a salute. “Mr. Stokes, light recovery crew, reporting for duty.” He lowered his stiffened hand from his brow. “After all, these matters are best not done alone.”
“How could I possibly say no to that?”
“You can’t,” he answered, grinning.