wool sorter in the yard, of Kuttenberg
“My hands shake too much for needlework now, so I only pull burrs from the fleece. I just want to be left in peace.”
Things Milena Vorsucher had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
I have spent hours on my hands and knees in the dirt, sifting through the wool scraps. If Widow Clemence's maid swept up Edward's little wooden dove and threw it into the hearth fire, I think my heart will stop. I feel as though I am burying him a second time.
Nota scribaeShe wept so heavily on the ledger I had to blot the page with sand.
the Wednesday after Ascension, at None
My little wooden dove is gone. I do not know if it fell from my apron pocket in the street, or if I dropped it while pulling at a stubborn fleece. I have lost the only thing that mattered to me.
Good. Now perhaps you will stop checking your pockets like a fool and do some real work.
the Tuesday after St George, at Prime
Isolde and Cecily are screaming over a pair of shears again. I shrink back to the far wall and wish I had Johanka's quiet pride. I cannot bear the noise, every shout makes my hands shake worse.
Keep your head down and let them squawk, Milena. The storm always passes.
If Cecily did not covet my tools, there would be no shouting. Mind your fleece, girl.
Nota scribaeDictated in a whisper, punctuated by nervous sniffs.
the second week of Lent, at Terce
Adam says bread is dearer this month because of the soldiers on the roads. I ate my heel of bread in silence. The fleeces are greasy today, and Felice chatters about silver wimple-pins. I just pull the twigs and try to remember Edward's face before the mud covered him.
You would care about the prices if Father stopped giving you the yard penny. Eat what you are given.
I was only trying to cheer you with talk of pretty things!
Candlemas, at Sext
Father gave me my penny just to get me out of the house. I took the seat furthest from the loud women in Widow Clemence's yard. I have Edward's wooden dove in my apron pocket, and rubbing it smooth brings me a little peace.
A penny wasted. You should be mending my shirts instead of mourning a dead hewer.
Nota scribaeShe touched her apron pocket three times while she said this.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will help you look again tomorrow, Milena. We will search every corner of the yard.
Stop crying over that soot-stained boy and come home for supper. Father is growing angry.