housewife and mother, of Kuttenberg
“I keep house for my Maurice, mind my children, and pray for the souls on this wretched street.”
Things Mabel Eldris had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the feast of St Urban, at None
My Maurice groaned terribly in his sleep again. Christ have mercy, I know it is my punishment. If only I could walk barefoot to Sedletz as I promised during the plague scare, but who would mind the porridge? The Lord's wrath is surely upon this house.
Nota scribaeShe wept into her apron and made me wait while she prayed a full rosary.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Heard more shouting at the wash-tubs today. Sibyl still has Betty's bone weaving die. I wish they would just go to confession and make their peace. It is a grave sin to steal, even a small thing, and this street is full of petty grievances.
I did not steal it! I only borrowed it, and I am still using it.
You borrowed it at Candlemas, you thief!
Palm Sunday, at Sext
Saw Vendula pining after that penniless soldier Jan again. Rosa is right to forbid it. Obedience to parents is God's absolute law, and these girls risk their eternal souls over worldly foolishness. Just like Margery crying over that wandering carpenter. Christ have mercy on them.
You know nothing of my heart, Mabel. Jan is a good man.
Christ have mercy on you, child. Pray for sense before it is too late.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Terce
Christina has been far too quiet lately. I fear she is hiding something from her husband Kunz. Secrecy is the very first step toward grave sin, as any good Christian knows. I shall pray a rosary for her soul before Vespers.
Mind your own pots, Mabel. I have nothing to hide from anyone.
Nota scribaeDictated at the wash-tubs in a hurried, breathless whisper.
Candlemas, at Prime
Berchta Weiss still refuses to visit poor bedridden Anna over a spilled pot of dye. It is deeply un-Christian to hold such a bitter grudge against a widow. Christ have mercy, the whole street is courting damnation with this pride. Someone must pray for them.
That old bat ruined my best wool. I will not forgive it, and I do not need your prayers.
Nota scribaeShe rubbed her wooden beads the entire time she spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Stop fretting, Mabel. God has bigger worries than your bare feet.