ledger keeper at the tailor's, of Kuttenberg
“I am the daughter of Edmund and Emma, keeping the tallies for the Tailor's House.”
Things Ellen Smith had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The horse-fat I bought at the market smells foul, but I must use it. The damp spring air has made my needlework so slow, and mother looks at me strangely when I drop the slate. I only pray the stiffness passes before she decides to find me a husband.
Nota scribaeShe kept her right hand hidden in her sleeve the entire time she spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
I pity our maid Anna. She jumps at every shadow since winter began. She must be terrified of the Hungarian soldiers quartered in the town, poor thing. I try to leave her be, though mother works her hard enough for three women.
You are kind, mistress Ellen, but the soldiers are only half my worry.
the Thursday before Palm Sunday, at None
It has been four winters since the sweating sickness took my father, Edmund. He taught me to form my letters and numbers, a gentle man unlike the rough tradesmen mother speaks of lately. The house is so cold without him. I miss his quiet ways.
He was a good man, but God took him. We must look to the living, and your future.
Nota scribaeA long silence followed this dictation.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
I made a poor accounting of the master's silver tallies this morning. My knuckles were so stiff I could scarcely grip the chalk. I told mother the slate was slippery from the scrubbing, but I do not think she believed me. I must try warmer water to soak them.
I can fetch warmer water for you tomorrow, mistress, if it helps.
Candlemas, at Sext
The turning of the year always reminds me of that heavy oak linen press in the outbuildings. I was only a girl when it crushed my fingers. The barber-surgeon did his best, but the bones set crooked. Every winter the cold settles deeper into the joints.
It was your own fault for playing where you shouldn't, though the barber was a fool.
Nota scribaeShe asked me to write 'stiff' instead of 'crooked', but the bones are indeed twisted.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you spent less time idling over your letters, your hands would not tire so easily, Ellen.