field hand and seamstress, of Kuttenberg
“I work for my bread, yet others take the silver my late mother left me and rightfully leave me with nothing.”
Things Eve Field had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint John Before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
The sky broke open today, so I sat indoors ruining my fingers sewing shirts for pennies. I should be at a cleaner trade, rightfully. My mother Hedvika did not leave me silver to freeze my hands off in the mud or cramp them on a needle. I keep thinking of the muster.
Nota scribaeShe paced the whole time she spoke.
the eve of Saint George, at None
I stood in the alley behind the cloth hall again and Zlata will not show me the gear. She took my good silver for the padded jack and the iron cap, and she locks it away just to torment me. The muster is coming and I will be pilloried because of her spite.
You talk too much, Eve. It is safe where it is. Do not trouble yourself before you must.
It is not safe, it is rightfully mine! Bring it to the lodging house by Sunday.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
They say bread is dearer again, because of the soldiers on the roads. I would not know, for I paid all my silver to Agnes and Zlata to keep me from the muster fines. And where is the gear? Hidden away. Christ almighty, the soldiers are thieves but they are honest thieves.
The cap is heavy and rusts if you look at it. Be glad you do not have to store the thing in your cramped room.
You should not speak so loud about soldiers, Eve. They have ears everywhere.
the Wednesday before Lent, at Sext
My mother Hedvika was tight with her coin, and I should have been too. I thought to be rightfully prepared for the feast of Saint John, to pay my way like a good Christian. The older women sit and squabble over shears, but I am in a worse trap, caught by my own honesty.
Your mother was a hard woman, but she never lent coin without a surety. You were too quick to part with yours.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the cloth hall. The speaker seemed close to tears but angry.
Candlemas, at Terce
I gave the last of my mother's silver to Agnes and Zlata today. They are buying the jacks and caps for the militia muster. The town council will not have a penny from me in fines, for I have done what is rightfully required. Now I only have to wait for them to bring the gear.
Silver in another's hand is silver gone. I hope they bring it to you.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is a cursed thing when they take what you pay for. The mud is the least of it when the bailiff wants his fines.
If I had been born as poor as dirt I would sleep easier. Having silver is a curse when your neighbours are wicked.