fruit merchant at the market, of Kuttenberg
“I sell apples and cherries in the square, my lad, and try to keep these foolish girls from ruining themselves.”
Things Margery Turner had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Holy Trinity, at Vespers
If any lad has a spare hour, go knock on Alice Gold's door. The foolish woman has not shown her face in two days, drowning her sorrows over that worthless hand Peshek sniffing after her Adela. I would go, but the miners will steal me blind if I leave the stall.
Nota scribaeShe jabbed her finger at the parchment the entire time I was writing.
the Thursday after Philip and James, at Terce
Another night of rain, another morning pulling wet covers off my good baskets. Lambert took himself off to Prague before Lent to deal in wool and left us to drown. I hope the city pox rots his nose off for taking my five groschen and leaving a roof full of holes.
I put a bucket under the worst of it, wife.
And missed the other three leaks, my lad.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
The snow is gone and the roads are clear, yet Ottilie and Margery Porter still wear their shoes. Vows to Saint Agnes and Saint Blaise are not tavern debts, girls. You cannot keep the Lord waiting. Do not come crying to me when He sends the fever back.
My knees are bad this spring, Margery. The Lord understands.
Mind your apples and leave my soul to the priest.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly enough for the whole square to hear.
the Wednesday before Laetare Sunday, at Sext
Alice Taylor is making a bloody fool of herself over a three-groschen ink pot. Yes, Margery Porter ruined your yard of silk, but holding her ink as a pledge is just childish spite. We are all stuck in this town together, girl. Give it back and be done.
Silk costs more than three groschen, Margery. She will get it back when I am paid.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted thrice to chase away soldiers looking at the cherries.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
A tight basket is the only thing standing between fresh fruit and bruised mash. Half the girls in this square throw their stock in like stones and wonder why nobody buys. I was up before the bells tossing out the rot. Hard work, but it keeps Hynek fed.
If Mary were here, she would help you sort them. Have you seen a messenger heading past Trosky?
Stop whining about your sister, girl, and sweep your own stall.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Peshek is not so bad, Margery. The girl should follow her heart.
Her heart will not feed her when he loses his wages at dice, girl.