weaver of cheap cloth, of Kuttenberg
“I spin and work the loom for the German merchants, though work is scarce and I jump at every noise.”
Things Zlata Weaver had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Eve corners me at the baker's stall again, demanding to see the padded jack. I told her the tailor is still fixing the torn lining, but my voice shakes. God's mercy, if the clerks come and see my empty chest before Saint John's day, I am for the pillory and the rotten cabbage.
Nota scribaeShe picked at the frayed edges of her sleeves so fiercely that two threads snapped while she spoke.
the feast of Saint Mark, at None
Agnes and I sat behind the church today to weep over our debts. It is a wicked spring. Katherine Braun is a hypocrite for crying over missing shears while holding Enneleyn's stretching frame. But I take a little joy knowing Eleanor Weaver still has Walpurg's carding combs. Walpurg was always a smug creature.
I only borrowed the frame, and Enneleyn knows it! You mind your own spinning, Zlata.
Aye, let Walpurg comb her wool with her fingers for a change.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
I had the silver Eve gave me in my hand. I bought the war gear. But the landlord came for his rent, and my belly was empty. God forgive me, I took the padded jack to Vitek the broker for enough pennies to survive the month. Now Vitek has packed his strongbox for Kolin.
I know the terror of it, Zlata. The man took Ottilie's iron cap from me the same way. We are ruined.
Nota scribaeDictated in a whisper. She stared at her boots the entire time.
the Monday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
The merchants have cut their buying because the roads are full of soldiers, but they still want their cloth. I was sorting cheap wool before first light, my fingers cracked and bleeding. Adleta Miller complains of her flax-breaker, but she does not know what real trouble is.
If my flax is not broken, I do not eat. We all have our burdens.
If you saved your pennies instead of weeping, you would not fear the merchants so much.
Candlemas, at Terce
The bailiff has announced the muster for the feast of Saint John. Every household must provide a padded jack and an iron cap. We are thrown into a panic. I barely earn enough to eat a hard crust at midday. Where will I find the groschen for a soldier's kit?
Do not weep, Zlata. I have the silver my mother Hedvika left me. I will buy the gear for our lodging, and you can pay me back when times are better.
Nota scribaeThe scribe notes that half the alley was weeping over the same proclamation.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A simple lining does not take a month, Zlata. My mother Hedvika's silver paid for that jack, and I will see it before Whitsun.
Leave her be, Eve. The tailors are rushed with the muster.