nobleman of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am Nicholas von Marsh. I keep my house in order, my daughters pure, and my younger friends from ruining themselves.”
Things Nicholas von Marsh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
The masquerade approaches, and I must confess a certain anticipation. It is foolishness, yes, but when the pitch is washed off and the masks fall, they will see that dignity outlives youth. Cousin Hugh's Parisian notions are absurd, but I shall bear them with grace.
Nota scribaeThe gentleman asked for his mirror three times while dictating this.
the eve of the Ascension, at Prime
My neighbour Alice continues to screech like a struck hen over the boundary stone. I have reclaimed what was mine, no more. I will not stoop to bickering in the dirt. If she wishes to quiet her conscience, she may withdraw her slander.
You moved the stone in the dark of night, you thieving peacock! My grandfather laid that marker!
I do not hear the squawking of geese.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
I sat with Thomas and Ralph at the tavern again. Thomas was shouting of his debts as if they were victories. It is a weary thing to be the only anchor of reason in a sea of boys. Yet they need an elder hand to guide them.
I can mix you a draught for the head if the shouting troubles you, Nicholas.
An anchor! You drank as much red wine as I did, my friend.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this very slowly and with his eyes closed.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Terce
Bread is dear, and soldiers clog the roads, yet the true siege is inside my own walls. William still speaks of this Katchka. A common girl. He will go to the monastery before I see the von Marsh name dragged through the mud.
She is a good girl, Father. You care more for your pride than your own blood.
In my day, a boy who spoke to his father so would taste a leather strap.
Leave the boy be, Nicholas. A heavy hand breaks the tool.
Nota scribaeDictated in the courtyard while glaring at a young man across the yard.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
I spent the morning tracing my brother John's accounts for the craftsmen. It is endless toil keeping this family from ruin. My uncle Claus sleeps half the day, and the maid Kunigunde missed a spot of dirt by the hearth. One must watch everything.
I scrubbed that stone thrice over, sir. It is the soot from the bad wood.
The accounts are sound. You see ghosts where there are only numbers, brother.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will look a proper wildman, Nicholas! Just do not complain of the itch when the feathers stick.
I wager ten groschen you cannot keep the mask on past None.