scavenger and wool carder, of Kuttenberg
“I survive in Kuttenberg however I can, dear. A clever girl must keep her eyes on the mud and turn a penny.”
Things Rosa Smith had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of St Urban, at None
Gerta is bleating like a lost sheep about her padded gambeson. She pawned it to me fair and square, dear. If she wants it back before the town muster, she can pay the double groschen we agreed. The soldiers are on the roads, cloth is dear, and I am not a charity.
Nota scribaeShe smiled the entire time she spoke.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
Christ Almighty, Bozhena Hunter put on quite the show today. The sour old bastard Benesh spilled a bucket from his window, and she screamed the street down over her splashed skirt. Such airs for a second wife! I laughed until my sides ached. At least nobody was killed.
It was good wool, ruined by a rotting old fool. You would cry too if you owned anything fine.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Terce
Bridget Lang is weeping by the well again over a lost bone comb. She asked if I picked it out of the mud. I told her I only pick up what the Lord provides. If a girl is too careless to keep her finery, it is not my fault it wanders off.
I know you have it, Rosa. My mother gave me that comb.
She probably has my aunt Isabel's shears in her apron too.
Nota scribaeShe kept her hands buried in her apron while saying this.
the Monday after St Matthias, at Prime
The bread is dearer again today. The arrogant German masters at the mint sit in their fine wools while the rest of us scratch for pennies. I saw Ella Richter hiding coins under a loose brick. A clever girl, that one, but she ought to find a better brick.
Keep your eyes off my bricks, Rosa.
Candlemas, at Sext
Annabel Cooper lent me a wonderful set of iron-toothed combs to card my fleece. She practically forced them into my hands, dear. They work through the dirtiest wool like a hot knife. I will surely return them when I am done, but there is so much work to do.
I said you could borrow them for the morning. Bring them back, I have my own fleece to card.
Tomorrow, dear, I promise. Just one more basket to get through.
Nota scribaeDictated near the oven. The combs were in her lap.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You thieving vulture, I never agreed to double. I need that coat or the bailiff will fine me.
Then you had best start saving your pennies, friend.