mender for the tailors, of Kuttenberg
“I spin yarn and mend coats so the men of this town do not look like beggars. My needlework is flawless, though nobody wants to pay what it is worth.”
Things Kethe Preng had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
Rosa Taylor is still whining about that bone stamping die. She can whistle for it. I patched two thick coats for her last Martinmas, and my needlework is practically invisible. She had no silver, so the die was fair trade. I earned it with my own cramped hands.
Nota scribaeShe jabbed her finger at the empty air while she spoke.
the second day of May, at Vespers
Working until my eyes bleed on a heavy wool tunic. The rent Lorenz squeezes from us takes every groschen Veit and I scrape together. I mend and mend, terrified the Hungarian levies will march in and leave us with nothing at all. Kurva, my fingers ache.
Lorenz is but a man doing his master's harsh arithmetic. We must all pay our share.
the Tuesday of Easter week, at Sext
I am forced to tie my hair under a tight linen coif for Mass because Madlen Bauer is an insolent upstart. I set my bone comb down by her wash-tub in haste, and she holds it ransom for a sliver of her foul-smelling soap.
You left it as a surety because you lacked the three pennies for the lye, Kethe. Pay what you owe.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rapid, defensive clip.
the first Wednesday of Lent, at Compline
Veit and Eberhard came back from the woodworking shop expecting a feast, as if the groschen stretch like they used to. I gave them pottage. If they want meat, they can thread my needle and help me finish this pile of breeches before the rushlight burns out.
A man needs hot food after a day at the saws, wife. The pottage was cold.
Candlemas, at None
That grasping leech Lorenz came to the yard today demanding the crushing new rent for the monastery. He treats us like mint masters while wringing the absolute last of our silver from us. Christ almighty, how are we to buy lye soap or bread when he takes it all?
It is a heavy burden, Kethe, but the Lord tests us. We must bear it quietly.
Nota scribaeShe cursed the monastery agent openly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It was a temporary loan, Kethe! Give it back before I tell the bailiff.
Produce the proper coin for my mending first, you ungrateful wretch.