townsman's daughter, of Kuttenberg
“I keep my father's house decent, or I try, despite those who would sweep my mother's memory out the door.”
Things Joan Porter had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Two groschen for a loaf of bread today at the market. Saint Jude preserve us. Between the king's troubles and the careless hands in this house, we will soon have nothing left at all.
Nota scribaeDictated at the parish well. She spoke very quietly.
The Monday after Saint John before the Latin Gate, at Terce
Kunigunde Kraus is still wailing about her lost brass thimble. It only proves what I have always said about new wives and their careless ways. The threshold must be kept spotless, or you lose what matters.
It was a good thimble, Joan. Simon the pedlar had no replacements when he passed.
The second day of Easter week, at Sext
Adela Gold does nothing but sigh over Casper the weaver. There is real work to be done, shirts to mend for Jan and Ulrich, and water to fetch. A girl cannot live on weeping.
You have no heart, Joan. If you loved as I do, you would weep too.
The Monday after Laetare Sunday, at None
I have searched the floorboards and the wash bucket. A single coral bead from my late mother's rosary is gone. I know well enough who swept it into the street. She wants no trace of my mother left in this house.
I did not touch your bead, Joan. I only swept where the dirt lay.
Leave your stepmother be, girl. The house must be kept clean.
Nota scribaeShe looked over her shoulder three times while saying this.
The morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
I was up before dawn to sweep the steps. The winter is bitter, but if I do not do it, who will? I must mend my brothers' shirts before dusk. The hearth room is too crowded now.
My sleeves are fraying again, sister. Mind you fix them well.
Nota scribaeDictated while picking at the seams of her sleeves.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I bake as well as I can, Joan. We must all make do.
My mother would have made the flour stretch further.