flax spinner of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I spin flax from dawn to dusk while the merchants fatten their purses on my aching lungs.”
Things Avice Thatcher had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Saw little Elsbeth Steiner hiding pennies in her skirt again today. The girl works herself to the bone, but she is a fool not to buy a hot bowl of pottage. Still, if she has coin to spare, perhaps I should ask her for a copper or two to ease my own empty purse.
Nota scribaeShe coughed twice while dictating this, sending flax dust over my parchment.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at None
If Ellen Brook whines about her sister Lucy in Kolin one more time, my head will split. When family moves away, they are gone. Accept the silence, I say, and stop bothering Mandelina to fetch and carry your endless messages. We have enough trouble right here.
You have a cold heart, Avice. Lucy is all the family I have left.
She speaks truth, Ellen. My feet are covered in blisters from the road.
the Thursday of Easter week, at Terce
The king's brother has soldiers all over the roads, and the merchants are using it as an excuse to charge a fortune for a stale loaf. Meanwhile, silly Grete Albrecht thinks she can marry that penniless former stableboy Francis. Bread is dear, child, and love does not fill a belly.
Francis will make his fortune in Kolin and come back for me! You will see.
Nota scribaeDictated near the market tubs. She spent longer complaining about the price of rye than the soldiers.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at Prime
Christine Cooper shouted at me in the street today for the linen hackle she lent me. I told her straight: she will not see her hackle until Alice Cook gives me back my heavy brass pressing iron. It is a matter of justice. How am I to work my spindle without tools?
My hackle has nothing to do with Alice Cook! You are a thief, Avice, just like the rest of them.
I am the victim here, Christine. Go scream at Alice if you want your hackle back.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
Lent my best heavy brass pressing iron to Alice Cook yesterday. She said she only needed it for a few days to finish a heavy cloak. I am a fool to trust anyone in this town. If she ruins the brass, I will drag her before the bailiff myself.
I have barely touched it, Avice. You shall have it back before Sunday, I swear it on the Virgin.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Mind your own purse, Avice. I am saving for my late mother's rosary, not for you.
Keep your hair on, girl. It was only a thought.