washerwoman of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I scrub the dirt from soldiers to pay for a cellar floor. It is honest sweat and it keeps me from losing my mind.”
Things Lydia had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Lida's boy came down the steps for the Saturday rent again. The rest of them scrambled and wept over their purses, as if the day does not come every week. I gave him my pennies and went back to the washing. The pain in my shoulders is better company than their noise.
Nota scribaeDictated at the washing stream. She did not stop working the paddle once.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
I sit in this dark hole and watch Martha and Hannah argue over a broken tub and a brass lamp kept as a pledge. They hiss at each other like geese. To fight over a wooden tub when death walks the roads seems the height of folly. I keep my sack packed and hold my tongue.
the Feast of the Annunciation, at Sext
The garrison brought down a cart of wool cloaks caked in spring mud. The lye bites at the cracks in my hands, but the freezing water numbs it. I work in silence. I see Sarah looking at me from across the stream, wanting me to speak to her. I never will. I only care that she draws breath while my husband does not.
I only closed my eyes for a moment, Lydia. The fever was already taking him. I am sorry.
Your sorrow will not dig him up.
Nota scribaeShe stared at the wall for a long time after saying this.
the Friday after St Matthias, at None
More soldiers on the road today. Every time I see the dust of a marching company, I think of the militia camp last summer. The bloody flux took them one by one. I would walk barefoot back to that wretched mud if I could bring Maresh home to a Christian churchyard, instead of an unmarked hole in the dirt.
God rest his soul, Lydia. My brother Bynyek lies in that same mud. We left too much of ourselves behind.
Candlemas, at Terce
The priest tells us to chronicle our days for the Lord. What is there to say? I wake before dawn, I carry baskets of dirty linen to the water, and I scrub until dusk. The cellar is cold. Joanna weeps about the bread prices. I eat my thin cabbage soup and I remember Maresh. That is the whole of my life.
Nota scribaeThe woman spoke with a tight jaw. She offered no coin for the ink.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is easy for you to judge when you take the heaviest cloaks. Some of us are hungry, Lydia.
Then pick up a heavier paddle and stop weeping about your stomach.