The Taker by Alma Katsu Read Free Book Online Page B

herself in the sunlight, enjoying her own company, and not apologizing for being idle. I was drawn to her immediately, though I was also frightened by her. There was something wicked about her. She didn’t attend services, after all; here she was enjoying her Sunday, whereas everyone else in town was inside the church or the congregation hall.
    She lifted her hand over her eyes against the sun. “Hello, who’s there?”
    I made my decision in that moment. I could have run back to church, but instead I took a few timid steps toward her. “You don’t know me, ma’am. My name is Lanore McIlvrae.”
    “McIlvrae.” She weighed the name, satisfying herself that she didn’t know it and, hence, didn’t count my father among her customers. “No, my dear, I do not think I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” She smiled when I curtsied.
    “My name is Magdalena—though I suspect you may know that, yes? You may call me Magda.” Up close, she was very pretty. She stood to rearrange the quilt and revealed that she was still in her night stays and a filmy shift of pale linen, drawn low on her chest with a thin pink ribbon. In a practical house such as ours, my mother owned not even one item of clothing as feminine as Magda’s gently shabby shift. I was struck by the combination of her beauty and this pretty item of clothing; it was the first time I’d ever been really covetous of another person.
    She noticed me staring at her shift and a knowing smile came to her face. “Wait here a minute,” she said and went inside the house. When she came out, she held a ribbon of pink velvet out to me. You can’t imagine what a treasure it was she offered; manufactured goods were rare in our hardscrabble town, fripperies such as ribbon rarer still. It was the softest fabric I’d ever touched and I held it lightly, like a baby rabbit.
    “I couldn’t accept such a gift,” I said, though plainly I wished it weren’t so.
    “Nonsense,” she laughed. “It’s only a bit of trim from a dress. What would I do with it?” she lied. She watched me finger the ribbon, enjoying my pleasure. “Keep it. I insist.”
    “But my parents will ask where I got it—”
    “You can tell them you found it,” she offered, though we both knew I couldn’t do that. It was an unlikely story. And yet I could not make myself give the ribbon back to Magda. She was pleased whenmy fist curled around her gift, and she smiled—but not in triumph, more in solidarity.
    “You are most generous, Mistress Magda,” I said, curtsying again. “I must return to the service or my father will worry that something has happened to me.”
    She tilted her chin up so she could look down her fine nose in the direction of the congregation hall. “Ah, so you are right. You mustn’t worry your parents. I do hope you will visit me again, Miss McIlvrae.”
    “I will. I promise.”
    “Good. Then run along.” I trotted down the path, lifting my skirts to avoid the muddy parts. Before I turned the corner, I looked back over my shoulder to the cottage to see that Magda had settled back in her chair and rocked contentedly, staring off into the woods.
    I could hardly wait for next Sunday to steal out during service and visit Magda again. I’d hidden the ribbon in the pocket of my second set of petticoats where I could slip my hand in from time to time and give the velvet a surreptitious stroke. The ribbon reminded me of Magda herself; she was so unlike my mother and the other women in the village and that alone seemed reason to admire her.
    One thing about her I thought worth admiring, but did not really understand, was that she did not have a man. No woman in the village lived without a man, and the man was always the head of the household. Magda was the only woman in the village who spoke for herself, though from what I could tell, she did very little on that front. I doubted she went to town meetings. And yet she continued to live on her own terms and