Six o’clock at the Mallow Lane lodging 🔍

At six o’clock in my room above Mallow Lane, I struck a spark into the tinderbox and coaxed the rushlight back to life beneath the grey window. I washed my face from a pewter basin, then pulled on a linen shirt, brown wool doublet, worn hose, and shoes still stiff with mud at the seams. Downstairs, Mistress Hale set out coarse bread, a little hard cheese, and small beer, safer and kinder to the stomach than water from the lane. I paid her two pennies toward the week and kept the remaining coins tied deep inside my leather purse. No one here knows how strange every board, bell, and buckle feels to me, so I copy their gestures and speak as little as I can. Before leaving, I tested the iron key she had lent me twice, fearful that my first full day might end with no bed to return to.

Near eleven o’clock at Bell Yard counting room 🔍

Near eleven o’clock in the counting room at Bell Yard, I bent over a scarred oak desk while pale light fell through panes clouded with soot. Master Vale, the cloth factor who has taken me on as a copying clerk, showed me how he wants lengths of wool and sums of shillings entered with a goose quill. The ink smelled sharp, and fine sand rasped softly as I scattered it over each fresh line before tipping the excess back into its horn. From the open yard came the thump of bundled cloth, the calls of porters, and the slow complaint of a cart axle. At noon I ate a hot meat pie from a street seller, guarding the greasy crust from a bold dog and wondering how many such pies a day’s wages might buy. My figures pleased the factor enough that he told me to return tomorrow, which loosened a knot I had carried in my chest since dawn.

Seven o’clock beside the Three Cranes stairs 🔍

At seven o’clock beside the Three Cranes stairs, I paused above the river as the falling light turned the water dull copper. Boatmen called for fares while wherries nudged the worn landing posts, and tar, fish scales, smoke, and tidal mud mingled in the warm air. I bought a small onion and a twist of salt for supper, counting each penny carefully in my palm before closing my fist. Back at Mallow Lane, Mistress Hale simmered pottage over the hearth, and I added the onion in thanks for her loan of the key. We ate from wooden bowls while the fire snapped and shadows trembled across the plaster. When the evening bell sounded, I climbed to my room with ink still caught beside my fingernails, relieved that I now had work to return to and one familiar door in this bewildering city.