THERE WAS AN alternative for Emma regarding Olivia’s safety: the option to send her to rural Chester, where Emma’s in-laws lived. She flicked the consideration away as soon as it wandered into her thoughts.
Arthur had been an only child, eager to flee the harsh rules of his parents and the grueling work on their farm. Emma and Olivia had lived with them briefly after his death and found not only a cold reception, but the same uncaring, disapproving attitude Arthur had endured in his life with them.
No, Olivia would be better off going with her classmates—with children she already knew—than being sent to grandparents who had never bothered to pursue a relationship with their only grandchild.
But if Emma kept Olivia with her in Nottingham...
The thought brought such comfort that Emma curled around the idea and let the warmth of Olivia’s sleeping form against her lull her into slumber.
The wail of a siren cut through the night, wrenching Emma out of a deep sleep. Her heart slammed against her chest.
Air raid sirens.
They were going to be bombed.
Just like Poland.
Whatever cry rose to her lips was unintelligible. A fresh dose of adrenaline shot through her as she grabbed for Olivia in the dark, pulling her daughter and part of the coverlet with them toward the door of the bedroom.
“What’s happening?” Olivia howled, a rawness to her voice Emma had never heard.
Fear.
The hair on Emma’s arms stood on end.
“We must get to the coal vault.” Though she’d tried to speak calmly, there was a slight pitch to Emma’s tone.
How long did they have before the bombing started?
She wrenched open the bedroom door in the blackout-regulation darkness, not bothering with the lights.
Together they stumbled their way to the front door, the blanket trailing behind them.
The infernal shrilling siren continued, urgent, a warning to hurry, hurry, hurry. Together, they flew out of the flat, tripping in their haste to get down the stairs.
Mrs. Pickering opened the door to the coal vault as they arrived downstairs and waved them in. “Come on, come on.”
A candle flickered in a brass holder in the center of the cramped space. To one side was a box marked in Mrs. Pickering’s neat handwriting: Bomb Shelter Treats, with Tubby sniffing eagerly at one corner. The box had been something of a joke, citing being sequestered in the coal vault as a logical excuse for a few toffees and some crisps.
Olivia had been excited at the prospect then.
Now she wasn’t even looking at the box of goodies. Instead, she was clinging to Emma, her body shaking. Emma drew the coverlet around them both in an attempt to share her body heat with her daughter.
Within the small coal bin, there were no windows, no clocks. The siren fell quiet, filling the room with the weight of an ominous silence.
Unease trickled like ice water down Emma’s spine. She suppressed a shiver and gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t even know what time it is.”
“Two thirty in the morning,” Mrs. Pickering replied. “Or at least it was when the siren went off.”
Olivia whimpered and pressed closer to Emma.
“Where is Mr. Sanderson?” Mrs. Pickering demanded in irritation, looking upward as though she could see through the floors to his whereabouts. “If bombs come crashing down—”
“Which they won’t,” Emma rushed to reassure.
Mrs. Pickering’s eyes widened with the realization of what she nearly said in front of Olivia. “You’re right. They won’t. In the meantime, I intend to go collect the man myself.”
With a huff, she extracted a spare candle from the treats bin and left the room.
“Be careful,” Emma cautioned.
Mrs. Pickering harrumphed. “If I die, I’ll come back to haunt him for leading me to this nonsense.”
The door slammed shut and Olivia pulled back slightly to look at Emma, her eyes big and frightened in the candlelight. “Are we going to die?”
“Of course we aren’t.” But even as Emma said the words, she wondered how many Polish mothers had promised their children the same thing.
Those lies, she realized suddenly, were flimsy. No matter how well-intentioned.
The idea of their being bombed also brought to mind how very vulnerable they were in the basement. Yes, the windowless room might shield them from shards of glass or the sharp bits of rubble in a blast, but if they sustained a direct hit, the house would be obliterated. The entirety of the structure would collapse into itself.
On top of them.
Her heart jolted up into her throat.
“If we do die,” Olivia said softly, “we can join Papa.”
Her words took Emma aback. Olivia never discussed Arthur.
“We won’t die.” Emma secured an arm around her daughter, so her head rested against Emma’s chest. “Now try to get some sleep. Who knows how long we’ll be here.”
Olivia didn’t go to sleep, but she quieted down, her gaze distant as Emma rubbed soothing circles over her back. As she did so, her ears strained for the low hum of an engine, expecting the blast of a bomb.
Her body tensed against the silence, in dread and in anticipation.
How long until the bombs came?
The door flew open and in walked Mrs. Pickering with Tubby at her side. His tail was more quivering than wagging with the nervous energy vibrating in the stale room.
“Mr. Sanderson won’t come, the stubborn old blighter.” Mrs. Pickering swatted her hand in the air dismissively. “I won’t be wasting my life for his sake again.”
“Why won’t he come?” Emma asked.
Mrs. Pickering scoffed. “Who knows with that one? Always keeps to himself, muttering about this or that.”
Olivia began to relax in Emma’s lap.
“You don’t know anything about him?” Emma pressed, encouraging Mrs. Pickering to keep up the distraction of her chatter.
“Not really.” Mrs. Pickering settled on the floor by Emma while Tubby nestled between them. “All I know is that he’s lived here since the house was built. I inherited him with the property, as much a part of the building as the iron fence out front. Who was I to force him out?”
She paused and smiled down at Olivia, where she sagged against Emma’s chest in exhausted slumber. Between them, Tubby slept as well, expelling raspy little snores. “I think the excitement has been too much for these two.”
“It’s for the best,” Emma replied. “I know she’s trying to put up a brave front, but she’s terrified.”
“And you?” Mrs. Pickering asked quietly.
The ground was cold and hard beneath Emma, the whitewash muddied with flecks of coal dust. She imagined what bombs dropping would be like—a possibility that still might become a reality until the all-clear siren could reassure them of their safety.
A shiver prickled over her skin.
“I still am terrified,” Emma answered slowly, “that something like what happened in Poland could happen here.”
Rather than disregard her fears, Mrs. Pickering nodded. “It well could. At least Olivia will be safe with you sending her away.” She closely regarded Emma. “You are sending her away, aren’t you?”
In reply, Emma looked down at her daughter, and even though she had not wanted to, Emma knew then she’d already made up her mind. Her daughter’s reaction to the air raid warning had been the deciding factor.
Olivia would have to leave.