seamstress and spinner, of Kuttenberg
“I sew and spin the finest thread in this wretched yard. If I had my own tools, I wouldn't have to work until my hands cramp every night.”
Things Ella Gross had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
The merchants took thirty spools today and paid fair copper, but my fingers are raw. It takes twice as long when the wool is foul and my good brass-toothed comb is still sitting in someone else's basket. I tap my foot every time I pass her door, but she looks away.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms tight across her chest for the entirety of the dictation.
the second day of Rogation, at None
Gerta was shrieking at the walls again about her leaking roof. I know Claus is a miser sitting up on the square counting his groschen, but all the yelling in Bohemia won't stop the rain coming through the tiles. Best to just put a bucket under it and save the breath.
It is easy for you to sit and preach when water isn't ruining your Sunday dress!
She has a point, Gerta. Claus isn't listening.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Vespers
I see Juliana made it back from Suchdol. A brave thing to walk those roads with all the soldiers about, but I wish she wouldn't come back with a tongue sharper than my needles. Still, she spins an even thread when she's of a mind to work.
The roads are what they are. My tongue keeps the soldiers at a distance.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Terce
A full month gone and my heavy iron shears are still with Lucy. It was supposed to be a short loan until Lent. A heavy piece of linen, she says. How much heavy linen is one girl cutting? I am losing groschen every day I can't cut thick cloth.
The padded jack takes time, Ella. The cloth is very thick. I promise you'll have them before Easter.
Easter is coming close, Lucy. We shall see.
Nota scribaeThe speaker sighed loudly and rubbed her cramping hands before speaking.
Candlemas, at Sext
Emma and Lucy were crying over their quotas, so I lent them my brass comb and my iron shears. I paid a month's wages for them three winters ago. They do fine work and the girls need the help. Saint Catherine preserve me if they let them rust.
You are a fool to lend your best iron, Ella. The young ones never look after things properly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I didn't mean to keep it so long, Ella. I just need it to finish one more batch. I must eat too.
And my landlord does not take pity for rent, Emma. Bring it back tomorrow.