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“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” said Izzie gratefully.

She left the delivery driver with Miss Reid, said a silent prayer that the man would survive his encounter with the scowling seamstress, and mounted the stairs to the flat.

As soon as she was through the front door, she paused to listen for the sounds of Mum moving around.

All was silent.

She really did have to speak to Mum about this. This was the fourth time in two weeks that Izzie had had to wake her mother to start the working day. If Mum really was so run down, perhaps it was time to ask Dr. Morton to call in on them. Maybe he could suggest something that would help bring Mum’s energy back again. Not that she looked forward to revisiting the old argument with Mum about whether it was worth paying the doctor’s fee for a house call only to be told that Mum needed rest and good meat for dinner at least once a week.

Izzie knocked on her mother’s door and waited for a response. She knocked again. Still nothing.

“Mum?” she called out. “It’s past opening time. It’s time to start the day.”

When there still was no response, she tried again. “I could use some help taming Miss Reid. She’s in a mood this morning.”

Still nothing.

Izzie twisted the knob and pushed open the bedroom door.

It was still and cool in the room, with the only light coming from the open door and a tiny crack in the blackout curtains that Mum drew every night. She could see dust particles dancing in the sunlight that lanced across the room and fell across Mum’s chest.

“Mummy?” A tiny flame of dread flickered to life in her stomach. “Mummy, it’s time to wake up.”

Forcing herself to creep into the room, she reached the side of her mother’s bed. Mum looked peaceful—young, even, without the lines of stress that too often etched her brow.

Slowly, she extended a hand until her fingers grazed the shoulder of Mum’s white flannel nightdress. Her mother didn’t move.

Izzie backed away a step, her eyes fixed on her mother’s face. She could see now the faint blue tinge of her mother’s lips, the waxy quality of her skin.

Dumbly, she backed out of the room and retreated down the stairs to the shop. A part of her mind registered the sound of the deliveryman moving about in the inventory closet and Miss Reid berating him for bumping into the wall, but it felt as though someone had thrown a length of gossamer chiffon over everything, dulling it. She reached for the telephone and asked to be connected to Dr. Morton’s surgery.

When he finally picked up the telephone, she said, “Dr. Morton, this is Isabelle Shelton.”

“Miss Shelton, what can I do for you today?” asked the avuncular man.

“It’s my mother.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Is she ill? Several of my patients have this flu that is going around,” he said.

“She’s dead, Dr. Morton,” she said numbly.

There was a moment’s silence on the line, and then the man cleared his throat. “I’m so very sorry, Miss Shelton. I’ll be there at once.”

It wasn’t until the tinny sound of the operator coming back and asking if she still wanted to keep the line open that Izzie remembered to hang up the telephone.

“Good evening, Mrs. Atkinson,” said Sylvia as she closed the flat door behind her.

“Good evening, madam. May I take those books for you?” asked the housekeeper.

Sylvia handed the two books to Mrs. Atkinson to allow herself the chance to unbutton her coat.

She’d spent the afternoon at the London Library, happy in one of the Reading Room’s deep armchairs. Hugo used to tease her that, despite the furs and jewels he’d given her, it was the subscription to the members’ library that she treasured the most, and he wasn’t wrong. She read voraciously—a habit she’d acquired after coming across an article in a magazine that said a woman could never be truly accomplished unless she was also well-read—and she loved nothing more than to wander the stacks, never knowing who she might run into. Once before the war she’d been carrying A Handful of Dust and had walked straight into the book’s author, Evelyn Waugh, as he browsed the books on religion. It had been a thrilling brush with literary notoriety, although when she’d told Hugo about it he’d laughed and told her she was adorable for caring, because everyone knew that Waugh was a sharp-tongued snob.

“Are there any messages?” she asked Mrs. Atkinson, trading her books for her coat.

“No, but the afternoon post came,” said the housekeeper. “I thought you might like to read it in the sitting room.”

“Thank you,” she said, mortified at how grateful she was because answering letters would give her something to do once Mrs. Atkinson left for the evening other than wander around the empty flat like the married alter ego of Miss Havisham, despairing of her husband’s affair.