mender of coats, of Kuttenberg
“I sit in the yard, pushing a needle through coarse wool until I cannot see the weave. I am waiting for Simon to come back with coin in his purse.”
Things Dorothy Thrush had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the second day of May, at Vespers
Sakra, the noise in this lane! Magdalena Ebner has been circling Enneleyn all day over a smoothing iron. Kona is yelling about a measuring cord. They are behaving like spoiled children. I keep my shears in my lap and my mouth shut, but if they step in front of my light again, I'll prick them.
Nota scribaeThe woman spoke very fast, waving her hands in a way that threatened to unseat my inkhorn.
the eve of St George, at Sext
Bread is dearer again this week, and Alice fed us pottage so thin it was little more than warm water. My father says a carter's wife would eat less. I told him when Simon comes back from the baggage train, we will eat roast mutton. He just laughed. The Hungarians are near Prague; they must be paying the men.
He hauls dung for pennies, Dorothy. If the Hungarians don't starve him, he'll drink whatever they pay him before he sees Kuttenberg again.
Sakra, you know nothing of him! He is a working man, not a drunkard.
Please, both of you. The neighbours can hear.
the Monday after Easter, at None
I finished six coats before Terce. Nobody on this street is faster with a needle. Elishka sits there hoarding pennies and working late, but youth does not last forever. She's an idiot not to spend a groschen on herself. We might all be dead of the sweat next year.
I save because I have to. Some of us don't expect a soldier to return and make us rich overnight.
Nota scribaeShe insisted I write down exactly how many coats she finished before Terce.
the third week of Lent, at Terce
Klara is turning her room upside down looking for a silver thimble her mother Hedvika left her. Two groschen worth of silver, and she weeps from morning till Compline. There are living men marching with the Hungarian army, dodging arrows and sleeping in the mud, but we must hear about a thimble.
It was my mother's. It is all I have left of her hands.
I know, Klara. I'm sorry. But my head aches with the worrying, and the crying does not help.
Candlemas, at Vespers
My knuckles are swollen from pushing needles through stiff wool all day. Father told the whole lane that no daughter of his will marry a man who hauls barrows. Does anyone know a good priest in the lower town who might speak to him? He won't listen to me, and Alice just scowls when I raise my voice.
I scowl because you shout until my ears ring. Your father has made up his mind.
There's Father Thomas at St James, but he always takes the father's side in these things.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is my iron, Dorothy, and she knows it!
Katherine took yours! And the shears were never Katherine's to begin with.