The Taker by Alma Katsu

seemed to be successful at it, and to a young girl that was a very admirable thing indeed.
    So the next Sunday I contrived to be excused from service again (though with stern looks from my father) and ran to Magda’s cottage. And there was Magda, standing on her porch this time. Her casual air was gone. She was dressed in a pretty striped skirt and wore a fitted woolen jacket in purple heather, an unusual color. The entire effectseemed calculated to delight, as though it was her intent to impress me. I was flattered.
    “Good day, Mistress Magda,” I said as I ran up to her, slightly out of breath.
    “Well, good Sabbath to you, Miss McIlvrae.” Her green eyes sparkled. We chatted; she asked about my family, I pointed in the direction of our farm. Just as I was thinking I should return to service, she said shyly, “I would ask you in to see my home—but I suppose that your parents would not approve. Seeing as who I am. It wouldn’t be proper.”
    She must have known I’d be curious to see the inside of her cottage. Her own place, the seat of her independence! I felt a tug to return to church, to my waiting father … but how could I turn this down? “I have but a minute …,” I said as I followed her up the steps and through the door.
    It seemed to me like the inside of a jewel box, but in actuality, it was probably quite tumbledown and makeshift. The tiny room was dominated by a narrow bed covered with a beautifully embroidered quilt of yellow and red. Glass bottles lined the sill of the one window, sending slivers of green and brown light to the floor. A few pieces of jewelry rested in a ceramic bowl painted with tiny pink roses. Her clothing hung on pegs by the back door, an assortment of full skirts in a variety of colors, trailing sashes, the frill of petticoats. Not one but two pairs of delicate women’s boots were lined up by the door. My only disappointment was that the room was stuffy, the air heavy with a musky scent I didn’t yet recognize.
    “I would love to live in a place such as this,” I said, making her laugh.
    “I’ve lived in nicer places, but this will do,” she said as she sank into a chair.
    Before I left, Magda gave me two pieces of advice, woman to woman. The first was that a woman should always put by some money of her own. “Money is very important,” she said to me, showing mewhere she kept a pouch full of coin. “Money is the only way for a woman to have any true power over her own life.” The second was that a woman should never betray another woman over a man. “It happens time and again,” she said, sounding sad. “And it is understandable, seeing that men are given all the worth in the world. We are made to believe that a woman’s only worth is that of the man in her life, but that’s not true. In any case, we women must stand by each other, for to depend on a man is folly. He will disappoint you every time.” She ducked her head but I swear I saw tears in her eyes.
    I was rising from the floor to leave when there was a knock at the door. A burly man stepped in before Magda could answer; I recognized him as one of St. Andrew’s axmen.
    “Hullo, Magda, I figured you’d be alone and wanting company, as everyone else is in church this morning … Who’s this?” He stopped short when he saw me and an unpleasant smile spread over his wind-burned face. “You have a new girl, Magda? An apprentice?” He put his hand on my arm as though I were not a person but a possession.
    Magda stepped between us and deftly ushered me toward the back door. “She’s a friend, Lars Holmstrom, and none of your business. You can keep your clumsy hands off her. Get along, now,” she said to me as she pushed me out the door. “Perhaps I will see you again next week.” And before I knew it I was standing in a pile of dead leaves, fallen branches crackling under my feet, the plank door shut tight in my face as Magda went about her business, the price of her independence. I crashed