Secrets of a Charmed Life by Susan Meissner

to stare at her as if she didn’t understand the language Thea was speaking.
    â€œWe’re on an island,” Emmy said. “The Nazis can’t roll in here with their tanks like they have everywhere else.”
    â€œBut that’s why no one can say how long this will last. I would hate for you to leave here thinking you’ll be back in a month. The papers say—”
    Emmy didn’t want to hear any more. She was tired of everyone and everything deciding what was to become of everything that mattered to her. She cut Thea off in midsentence. “I have to go, Thea, or I’ll be late. Sorry. I’ll be back for Julia before six thirty.”
    Emmy knew she had been abysmally rude, but she simply had to get away from Thea and her box of supplies for her bomb shelter, and from the fear in her eyes. She went back to the flat for the two sketches she had promised Mrs. Crofton and held them to her chest for a moment. These would keep her place, if not in Mrs. Crofton’s shop, then in Mr. Dabney’s future plans. They had to.
    She headed for the bridal shop, passing sandbag walls on street corners that she and everyone else had been walking past for a year and hardly noticed anymore. Everyone on the sidewalk seemed distracted by unspoken ponderings as they dashed about without a word to one another, not even a tip of the head or a weak smile. It was as though the imminent departure of a quarter million children meant London was poised to lose her innocence and no one quite knew what to do on the eve of that loss.
    Emmy arrived at Primrose Bridal and opened the door. The store was empty except for one young woman buying a veil.
    And only a veil.
    Emmy surmised from the conversation the womanand Mrs. Crofton were engaged in that she was to marry on Friday morning at Saint Martin–in-the-Fields wearing the veil and a dress of white dotted Swiss that she had worn to a piano recital in April. Her husband-to-be was shipping out with his platoon on Saturday afternoon.
    While Mrs. Crofton finished the transaction, Emmy went into the back room to see what hand-sewing was lined up for that afternoon, but the long table was empty. A few moments later, Mrs. Crofton joined her. She looked haggard, as if she hadn’t slept well or perhaps had eaten something for lunch that now roiled inside her.
    â€œAre you all right, Mrs. Crofton?” Emmy asked.
    She produced a wan smile. “Ask me that question when the war is over, Emmeline, and I might have an answer for you.” Mrs. Crofton looked down at Emmy’s hands. “You brought them.”
    â€œOf course.” Emmy held the sketches out to her.
    She hesitated for a moment before taking them. “Do you have something to tell me?”
    The words startled Emmy, but a second later she was glad Mrs. Crofton had suspected she was to be sent away.
    â€œMy mother is making me leave. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Crofton. I had no idea this would happen when I took this job.”
    The woman nodded once and cast her gaze to the sketches in Emmy’s hand. “I really thought I could pretend there was nothing to worry about as long as I just went about my business and sold wedding dresses to happy young women.”
    Emmy hadn’t rehearsed a response from Mrs. Crofton that had nothing to do with her, so she had no words at the ready.
    â€œDo you still want me to send these to my cousin?” Mrs. Crofton’s voice was void of emotion and strength,as though it really didn’t matter anymore that she had met Emmy and liked her sketches and wanted to help Emmy embark on a future as a wedding dress designer.
    â€œI most certainly do. The evacuation doesn’t change anything.”
    Mrs. Crofton looked up at Emmy. “Except that you won’t be in London.”
    â€œBut I am going to return as soon as I can. I very much want you to send the sketches to Mr. Dabney and I want to know when he will be returning to the