dyer's hand in Saint james's parish, of Kuttenberg
“I stir the heavy dye pots now, but I was meant for a finer house. The women in this yard are nothing but thieves who pick over scraps.”
Things Gerta Braun had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
Rosa asked again to see her husband's war gear. I told her the gambeson was still drying in my loft. Sakra, I cannot keep her off the ladder much longer. If anyone has silver to spare, I am in desperate need before the first of the month.
Nota scribaeShe was wringing her red hands the entire time she spoke.
the second day of May, at Vespers
Cunne Friedrich is a thief. She locked my fine pewter jug in her chest and demands twenty groschen. The wind blew her madder pot over, not my foot. If a kind soul gets my jug back from her, I swear I will give them a hot meal by the fire.
You kicked the pot in a fit of temper, you lying kurva. Pay for the dye or the jug stays in my chest.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Prime
The Cumans have driven the grain prices so high a crust of bread takes my last penny. I had to visit Berchta behind the old mint just to keep from starving. The old widow has no pity for a hard winter. I only meant to hold the silver for a week.
We are all starving, Gerta. Mandelina and I save every coin we find for Joerg's stall, and you complain about bread.
Nota scribaeDictated near the dye pots. She asked for a crust of bread after.
the second Sunday of Lent, at None
I am surrounded by fools. Svatava is still fighting over that muddy strip of land old Ursula left them four winters ago, and Clemence weeps over that vagabond Kunz who marched off with the Hungarians. Nobody in this yard has the sense God gave a turnip.
My mother promised me that land on her deathbed, Gerta. Mind your own boiling pots.
Kunz is a hero and he will come back rich from Prague, you bitter old crow.
Candlemas, at Sext
Another day stirring the woad and madder. Look at my hands, stained red like a butcher's. Lye soap does nothing. I was meant for better things than serving masters who let us freeze in the yard while they count their groschen.
We all work the same pots, Gerta. Stop putting on airs.
Nota scribaeShe showed me her hands. They were indeed very red.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It has been drying for three weeks, Gerta. I am coming up there tomorrow.
I know where that gear really is. We are both in the widow's ledger now.