housekeeper for the woodcutters, of The woodcutters' camps
“I feed twelve unwashed hewers and keep the sickness out of this camp.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Saint Urban, at Compline
The camp is too loud tonight. I found myself setting a bowl out for Matthew out of sheer habit. I miss his quiet ways, and the fact that he actually wiped his boots before stepping near my hearth.
Nota scribaeShe stood with her arms crossed tightly the entire time she spoke.
the Tuesday after Saint George, at Vespers
The hewers are complaining loudly about the thinness of the broth. If they want thicker stew, they can pay the new baker's price themselves. It costs two pennies more for every sack now, and I refuse to beg.
the Wednesday before Easter, at Prime
They marched Matthew off to Prague with the king's levy this morning. He was the only one who helped me carry the heaviest sacks of meal from the village. God keep him safe on those wretched roads.
Nota scribaeShe looked away while dictating this part.
the first Sunday in Lent, at None
I will not speak to her. Calling me a feral savage who ruined the flour in the damp camp! My mother taught me how to keep a larder dry. I want a public apology before I ever buy from her again.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Sext
Twenty groschen I paid for a heavy sack of rye flour, and I open it here to find it crawling with black weevils and cut with coarse sawdust. I am marching straight back to the market cross tomorrow to give her a piece of my mind.
Leave it be for tonight, Joan. I will help you carry the sack down tomorrow morning.
Nota scribaeShe slammed a paring knife onto the table as she said this.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
And if any man tries to snatch a serving early, he gets the spoon across his knuckles.