armourer's housemaid, of Kuttenberg
“A dutiful daughter to the eye, but a soul meant for higher stations. I wait for deliverance from ashes and wool.”
Things Anna Alder had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday after St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Standa says the court in Prague is a marvel of illuminated manuscripts and fine music. I try to imagine it while I sweep the yard, but it is difficult when John walks past smelling entirely of manure and cabbages. One day I shall not have to look at mud anymore.
Nota scribaeShe spent much time looking at her hands and sighing before dictating this.
the second day of Rogation week, at Sext
My mother has threatened to lock the gate at dusk if I do not cease my evening walks. She claims Standa's dice habits make him unsuitable. She understands nothing of his melancholic temperament, nor the burden of his intellect. I will simply climb the woodpile.
His intellect loses half his wages at the tables before Sunday. I will take an axe to the woodpile if I must.
the Tuesday after St Mark, at Prime
Robert was pacing the stones again this morning, muttering about Anthony and the levy lists until I dropped my spindle. I pity his terror, truly I do, but the noise makes my head ache terribly. I wish he would find a quieter place to be frightened.
If that clerk puts my name on the parchment, I'll have a halberd in my hands. A spindle dropping is the least of it.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at None
Christina shouted through the entirety of the holy feast about selling father's land. She wants to marry Bartholomew, who comes from the Osel shaft covered in soot and stale ale. I cannot fathom choosing a life beneath the earth when the heavens are above us.
Bartholomew earns silver, you foolish girl. Your Standa earns nothing but debts. Father's land is wasted on John's onions!
I wash the soot off before mass. Most days.
Nota scribaeThe sister was present during the dictation and had to be restrained from striking the speaker.
the Tuesday after Ash Wednesday, at Terce
My mother insists I must eventually marry a respectable tradesman. The very thought makes my heart heavy. To spin and sweep for some dull cooper or tanner, until my hands are as rough as the bark they use. I pray providence sends me a man of letters instead.
A tanner brings home hides. A scribe brings home nothing but fine words and empty pockets. You will do as I say.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Mud feeds us, Anna. Your scribe's ink won't fill your belly when the winter comes.
There are things more nourishing than turnips, John. Things of the spirit.