woodworker at the sawmill, of The woodcutters' camps
“I am the eldest son of Lawrence Field, doing the work of three men for a hired hand's coin. My back carries this family's lease.”
Things Andrew Grey had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
That royal clerk Michael rode out again in his fine clothes to check our charcoal quotas. Christ's wounds, I do the tallying and the hauling, and the man just points his finger. He tightens the knot on us all, and my father says nothing.
Nota scribaeDictated at the kilns. He sighed heavily before speaking.
the Monday after St George, at None
A man cannot bind timber without his working iron. Someone opened my chest and took my forged nails. I know who it was. I will not state any lies before this household to get them back, but he had better return them.
They are a lawful pledge for what you drank before Lent. Say what you owe me, and you will have your iron.
Taking a man's working tools is a coward's trick.
Nota scribaeThe word he used for his brother was struck from the record.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
My uncles Jezhek and Standa are wasting their breath arguing over that far strip of land again. Grandfather Lambert has been in the ground since ninety-nine, God rest his soul. We have timber to saw, and they do nothing but mumble about dirt.
Lambert promised it to us on his deathbed. You are too proud to care about the family's rights, lad.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Terce
Hynek is whining about the bailiff's levy again. Christ's wounds, the boy jumps at every shadow on the road. Half of me hopes the bailiff does drag him away to the wars so I don't have to hear him complain while I work the saw.
There are soldiers on the roads burning villages, Andrew. A man has a right to worry.
the first Friday of Lent, at Compline
The ale at the tavern was watered down, but I drank my share. My purse is light, but the charcoal will sell soon enough and my slate will be wiped clean. An eldest son should not have to count copper pennies like a beggar.
You drank on my coin, Andrew. Do not forget it.
Nota scribaeDictated with crossed arms and a stiff jaw.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Hold your tongue, Andrew. The Kuttenberg mint needs its share, and we will provide it.