townsman's daughter and errand-runner, of Kuttenberg
“I am biding my time in this dusty town until my true life begins, though nobody here has the vision to see it.”
Things Vendula Taylor had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
If they only knew. Jan will return from Prague with his pockets full of silver and plunder, and then we will see who is a penniless wastrel. The levy must be released soon. I will not grow old and sour in this dreary place, married to some fat merchant I despise.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms tightly and stared at the wall while dictating this.
the second Tuesday in May, at None
Left a spare loaf at the widow Anna's door today. It is a terrible thing to be bedridden and lonely, with only the shaking ague for company. Though she does have a sharp tongue. I pray I never end up so bitter, trapped in one room for the rest of my days.
You waste good bread on a spiteful old crone who spilled my best dye.
At least I have a heart, Berchta, which is more than your pride allows.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
Sibyl Bauer has the gall to demand her goose quills back! I hauled her heavy, soaking wet laundry all the way from the river, blistering my hands until they bled. Those imported quills are fair payment. She is stingy and takes advantage of my youth, but I will not yield them.
It was a loan, you little thief! I need them to send word to my sister Zlata.
You should have hauled your own baskets then, Sibyl.
You should give them back, Vendula. It is not right to keep what isn't yours.
Nota scribaeShe bit her lower lip and showed me a tiny red mark on her palm.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Prime
Woke at first light to my mother shouting my name again. Every morning it is the same. Trudging to the public tubs, dragging heavy wooden pails up the street, sweeping the threshold. Precious few appreciate a bit of hard work when they see it. My hands are ruined.
Less writing, more sweeping, girl. The bakery won't fetch its own bread.
We all have to work, sister. Stop your sighing and fetch the water.
the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, at Compline
I have drafted a letter. I can write a fair hand, which is more than most of the clucking hens on this street can manage. It is safely hidden away in my wooden box in the loft. Let the older women fret and preen; I have my own plans.
Writing letters only brings trouble. You should focus on your chores, child.
Did you use the quills? I hope he reads it soon.
Nota scribaeDictated in a whisper, ensuring her father could not hear from the stairs.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Do not speak that name under my roof, girl! He is a beggar with a sword.
Hold fast, Vendula. Richard will send for me from Kolin, and Jan will come for you.