Free The Taker by Alma Katsu Page B

domain: how to make a tender loaf of molasses bread or coax milk from an aging cow, how well you could sew or the best way to cure a child’sfever. Tests to prove our suitability as wives, but I had little interest in competition of this sort. There was only one man I wanted for my husband and he cared little for the tenderness of a bread crumb.
    One of the household tasks I cared for the least was laundry. Lightweight clothing could be taken down to the creek for rinsing and wringing. But several times a year, we’d have to do a thorough washing, which meant setting a large cauldron over a fire in the yard for a full day of boiling, scrubbing, and drying. It was a miserable job—arms plunged in boiling water and lye, wringing out voluminous wool garments, spreading them to dry on bushes or over tree limbs. Laundry day had to be chosen carefully, for it required a stretch of good weather when no other laborious household task needed doing.
    I remember one such day in the early autumn of my twentieth year. Oddly, my mother had sent Maeve and Glynnis to help my father with the haying, insistent that she and I could handle the washing by ourselves. She was strangely quiet that morning, too. As we waited for the water to boil, she fussed with the washing things—the bag of lye, the dried lavender, the sticks we used to push the clothing around in the pot.
    “The time has come for us to have an important conversation,” my mother said at last, as we stood beside the cauldron, watching bubbles rise to the surface of the water. “It’s time to think about getting you started on a life of your own, Lanore. You’re not a child any longer. You are well into a marrying age …”
    Truth be told, I was nearly past a good age for marriage and had been wondering what my parents intended to do about the situation. They’d arranged betrothals for none of their children.
    “… and so we must address what to do about Master St. Andrew.” She held her breath and blinked at me.
    My heart fluttered at her words. What other reason would she have to bring up Jonathan’s name in the context of marriage if she and my father didn’t intend to seek an arrangement for me? I was speechless from joy and surprise—the latter for knowing Father didn’tapprove of the St. Andrew family, not anymore. Many things had changed since the families followed Charles St. Andrew north. His relationship with the rest of the town—with the men who’d trusted him—was strained.
    Mother looked at me squarely. “I tell you this as a mother who loves you, Lanore: you must cease your friendship with Master Jonathan. The two of you are children no longer. To continue in this way will do you no good.”
    I didn’t feel the flecks of boiling water alighting on my skin or the heat from the cauldron dampening my face. I stared back at her.
    She rushed to cover my horror-struck silence. “You must understand, Lanore—what other boy will want you when you are so obviously in love with Jonathan?”
    “I’m not in love with Jonathan. We’re only friends,” I croaked.
    She laughed gently, but it stabbed at my heart all the same. “You cannot deny your love for Jonathan. It’s quite evident, my dear, as it is just as evident that he does not feel the same way toward you.”
    “There’s nothing for him to show,” I protested. “We are just friends, I assure you.”
    “His flirtations are the talk of the village …”
    I brushed a hand over my sweaty brow. “I know of these. He tells me everything.”
    “Listen to me, Lanore,” she implored, turning to me even as I turned away. “It is easy to fall in love with a man as handsome as Jonathan, or as wealthy, but you must resist. Jonathan is not to be your destiny.”
    “How can you say that?” The protest broke from my lips though I hadn’t meant to say anything of the kind. “You cannot know what lies ahead for me, or Jonathan.”
    “Oh, silly girl, do not tell me you’ve set your heart on