maidservant at the butcher's yard, of Bylany
“I am a maidservant here at Pekaruv dum. I scrub the blood-pits and pray the Lord sees my quiet labour, though I only wish to look decent for Him.”
Things Edith had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Master Roger still holds my bone comb. He says he will not give it back until his daughter returns her late mother's butchering knife. I cannot walk to Sedletz looking like a ragged beggar, but I fear the Lord's anger if I delay my vow any longer.
Nota scribaeShe wept while saying this. I told her the Lord cares little for hair combs.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at Compline
The blood-pits took all day to scrub clean. My hands are raw to the bone from the cold water. Christine curses the master for our unpaid wages, but I just pray her anger does not bring the soldiers down on our heads. Bread is too dear to be cast out.
Keep praying, girl. Prayer will not fill our bellies when that Kuttenberg burgher Havel takes the roof from over us.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Master Roger paced the floor all night counting his copper pennies. The bond is due to Master Havel on St George's Day, and the fear of it makes him terribly hard. I hear Mistress Lucy groaning from her old cart injury, and poor Isabel weeping in the yard for Julian.
And the roof on our shed is still rotting away. Nobody cares if we sleep in the rain.
Pay no mind to my groans, child. The damp gets into my bones, that is all.
Nota scribaeShe whispered the master's name so softly I had to ask her thrice to repeat it.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at None
The blight has taken the village barley. I made a solemn vow to the Lord that I shall walk barefoot to the monastery at Sedletz if He spares us starvation. I only wish to look neat and proper when I stand before the holy brothers.
It is a good vow, Edith. Let us hope the Lord is listening, for the flour is already running low.
Candlemas, at Terce
A heavy day. Before I climbed into the pit, I gave my precious bone comb to Master Roger to keep safe. But later a crock of rendered fat broke, and he blamed me. He says he will keep my comb as a pledge for the ruined fat. It took me a year of pennies to buy.
Clumsy maids pay for what they break. That is the law of my yard.
I swear by the Holy Mother I did not touch the crock, master.
Nota scribaeShe clasped her hands very tightly the whole time I wrote this down.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will get your comb when that wretched girl yields up the knife, and not a day before.
I am sorry, Edith. But I will not let him have mother's knife. Not ever.