coal seller at the market, of Kuttenberg
“I sell coal with my father. It gets in your throat and turns your hands black, but it buys our bread.”
Things Richard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Father was shouting again today about thieves in the house. I spent the evening looking under the stools and benches for my brass ring, just to show him I am trying to find it. My stomach hurts.
Nota scribaeThe young man stared at his soot-stained boots the entire time he spoke.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
My back aches terribly from the lifting. We hauled ten baskets from the yard. Master Bartel rode past the stalls today and held a perfumed rag to his nose so he would not smell the coal dust.
He treats us all like dirt, Richard. I freeze in his stable while he sits by his fine fire.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Compline
Things are very bad at home. My father borrowed Kunz's hunting knife, and the next morning mother's wooden carving of Saint Barbara was gone from the mantle. Now father has locked the knife in his chest.
Ash Wednesday, at Prime
I lost the little brass ring my late mother Ella left me. I told father it must have fallen into the rushes in the house. He is terribly angry.
It was your mother's, Richard. We will tear up the rushes until we find it.
Yes, father. I will look again tonight.
Nota scribaeHe spoke so quietly I had to ask him to repeat himself twice.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
The wind is bitter on the Horse Market today. My hands are black and freezing, but folks need fires for their ovens so we sell every piece we haul. I just wish the dust would wash off.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep looking, lad. The ring did not grow legs and walk out. We have a thief next door.