mender of miners' clothes, of Kuttenberg
“I mend torn shirts so we can afford bread, and pray the Lord does not strike my house.”
Things Avice Ford had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Another troop of Hungarians on the road to Sedletz today. How can a woman walk barefoot to the bone church with soldiers about? God knows my heart, but my feet cannot make the journey while the devil is loose in Bohemia.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rush. She dropped her needle twice.
the Tuesday after Easter, at None
Philip coughed thrice before Matins. I nearly dropped the water bucket. If the sweating fever returns, Matthew will just stand there gaping like a hooked fish again. I must buy more beeswax, just in case.
I fetched the wood last night, did I not? Leave off me.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
Sitting in Widow Clemence's yard and my fingers are numb. Milena is weeping over that wooden dove again. The poor girl's sorrow is heavy, but at least she has no living husband's breath to listen for in the dark.
Edward carved it with his own hands before the deep mine took him. You have no heart, Avice.
Leave the girl be, Avice. We all have our crosses.
Nota scribaeShe asked if the Lord counts weeping as a penance.
Saint Gregory's day, at Sext
Another penny to Widow Clemence just to sit in the light and stitch miners' sweat-stained wool. The bread is dearer this month. I swear my bone needle will snap before we see a good harvest.
It is daylight robbery, but where else can we sit?
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
The priests say we must chronicle our days. Well, write this: I swore to walk barefoot to Sedletz if Philip lived through the autumn fever. He lives. But the snow is hard and the roads are full of Cumans. Surely the Lord can wait until the thaw.
What vow is this, wife? You said nothing of walking to the bone church.
Nota scribaeThe priest reminded her that a vow is a vow, thaw or no.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You worry too much, Avice. The soldiers care naught for a woman holding a candle.
Easy for you to say, Felice, polishing your silver pin while the rest of us hide.