merchant of remedies and words, of Kuttenberg
“I sell remedies for the body and ink for the page. My discretion comes entirely free of charge.”
Things Amice Fuller had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the second day of May, at None
Clerk Lawrence inspected the market today. I kept my hands perfectly still on my apron and offered him nothing to look at but dried herbs and cheap ink. He walked past. Praise be to Saint James for small mercies.
Nota scribaeDictated in a low, measured tone. The woman seemed unusually relieved.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
Hugh Brook will not cease his whispering. He thinks I have coin from a certain piece of silver we saw on the march two winters ago. I have not sold it, and I will not give him a single groschen to drink away.
You know what you owe me, Amice. Do not pretend otherwise.
the Feast of the Annunciation, at Terce
Read a ledger for a butcher this morning. You learn far more about a person by reading their debts than by listening to their boasts. Half the square is drowning in pennies owed.
Mind your own business, Amice. We all have debts.
Nota scribaeThe scribe notes that she did not name the butcher, though asked.
the second week of Lent, at Prime
Standa Turner had the nerve to ask to borrow my ink today. I told him a man who cannot watch the rear of a wagon train, leaving young Baldwin to die in a ditch, is not a man I will speak to.
It was not my fault. The driver moved the wagon on. Leave it be, woman.
Candlemas, at morning
The men at this market make enough noise for the whole town. Heinz Mannlicher complains louder than a stuck pig. I unfolded my stool, set out my pots, and said nothing.
If you had my ailments, you would complain too.
Nota scribaeWritten at the market edge. The noise was indeed dreadful.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
He took two pennies off me for a broken bowl. The man is a thief.