washerwoman and spinner, of Kuttenberg
“I wash fine shirts and spin thread, keeping to myself and saving every penny I earn.”
Things Margery had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the vigil of Pentecost, at Vespers
A stale crust of bread costs two pennies now. It is robbery. I sit spinning by the bakehouse just to keep warm, watching Madlen beg on the road. I rely on my own hands, but the silver does not stretch as it did.
Nota scribaeShe pointed her finger at my chest as she said this.
the Thursday of the Ascension, at Terce
A hardwood bat and good iron shears cost a year's wages. I saved every groschen. Yet Christine still claims she needs my shears for a thick hem, and Elsbeth swears my bat is at the stream. It is a mortal sin to keep what is not yours.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Emma and Anna took guard contracts, and now quartermaster Ulrich is shouting the walls down over torn gambesons. I warned them. Better to wash delicate linen quietly than risk a whipping from that man. I hear Christina pawned a jacket for meal. Madness.
the Friday after St Gregory, at Prime
God rest widow Agnes. She let us sleep in her damp cellar for a single groschen a week, but the coughing sickness took her. Now the new landlord has thrown us into the alley. Another hardship this cursed war has brought us.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
The refugees crowd the streets, and pity makes fools of us. I lent my heavy washing bat to Elsbeth and my good shears to Christine. I only hope they remember how much silver those tools cost me. I am a craftsman, not a charity.
Bless you for the shears, Margery. I will return them by Sunday.
Nota scribaeDictated at the upper troughs. She spoke deliberately, measuring every word.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
At least you have the ovens, Margery. The streets are cruel at night.