Free Under the Jeweled Sky by Alison McQueen Page A

flash of moonlit shoulder, a Grecian pose almost, as she stood in her petticoat, her dress now a pool of silk on the cool marble slab. He stared at her, on fire, his love so overwhelming that he might swallow her whole, his shirt over his head and aside, his pajamas loosened and thrown. She stopped, silent, and saw his beauty, feeling his warmth, and oh, his lips upon hers. They kissed again, a kiss like no other. She could no longer tell where he began and she ended, the two of them molten, liquid. He felt his body on fire, the fire of life, the first fire ever known to mankind. She felt her heart give way, the world shifting from here to the ends of time, to the moon and stars and the universe that holds them. Jag watched her shiver in his arms, and then there was nothing but ecstasy.
    Above them, the stars had disappeared, shrouded beyond the veil of smoke thrown out from the fireworks that cloaked and bittered the night air.

1957
London

6
    The tiny flat in Kendal Street held a permanent unpleasant stickiness in the air, both from the hand-laundered delicates that hung dripping from the line above the enamel tub in the bathroom and from the poorly ventilated kitchen, its bottom window painted shut. Sophie’s latchkey clattered on to the table as she pulled off her coat and hung it up. A hearty aroma filled the flat, reminding her sharply of her emptiness, having eaten nothing since the tea and toast she had forced down in the station cafeteria that morning.
    â€œSophie? Is that you?”
    She called hello and made her way down the narrow hallway to the kitchen, where steam ran freely down the sash window, fogging the grim view of the red-brick building not more than ten yards behind theirs.
    â€œWhere on earth have you been?” Margie dusted clouds of loose flour from her hands and pulled her apron over her head, throwing it aside, blind to the mess she had made as always. “Lucien turned up on the doorstep three hours ago and said you’d stood him up for lunch. He was mighty upset about it. Have you two had a tiff or something?”
    â€œHardly.” Sophie slid the silk scarf from her neck and sat at the table.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?” Margie rinsed her hands under the tap, tinny music escaping from the transistor radio perched precariously on the shallow ledge above the sink.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThen why the long face?”
    â€œOh, I’m just feeling a little under the weather.” Sophie looked up and managed a smile, shaking off the awfulness of the day. “What are you making?”
    â€œMeat and vegetable pie,” Margie said. “Got a bit of scrag end from the market. Mind you, there wasn’t much left of it by the time I got all the gristle off. Want to give me a hand with the spuds?”
    Sophie rolled up her sleeves. “Pass them over.”
    Margie spread a sheet of newspaper on the table and tumbled a small pile of potatoes upon it before seating herself and setting into one sharply with a knife, watching closely as Sophie picked up a muddy clod and inspected it.
    â€œAll right,” Margie said, paring out a sprouting eye. “Let’s have it. What’s he gone and done this time?” Sophie didn’t bother to look up.
    â€œHe’s asked me to marry him.”
    â€œWhat!” Margie sprang up from the table, hand snatching out to silence the radio, almost knocking it over. Sophie began to peel, her knife moving slowly, concentrating hard. If she got the peel off in one single unbroken coil, it would be a sign, she decided. An omen of some sort. Margie stared at her. “What did you say?”
    â€œI told him I’d think about it.”
    â€œWell, blow me down.” Margie shook her head incredulously. “That’s a bit of a bolt from the blue, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’m as surprised as anyone.”
    â€œWhen did he ask you?”
    â€œSunday.”
    The peel dropped from the