“The bombers fly up the river, Hazel. They use our beloved Thames as a map into the city. You can hear the grind of their engines, then the high whistle of a bomb being dropped, then the thump of it hitting the earth, exploding homes, setting afire cathedrals and libraries and museums. They come just after dark.” She shuddered. “You never know when the next one will arrive. The sky trembles like a thunderstorm. Far away or close, you see a bright white light, then a yellow flame.”
