ale-server at the tavern, of Bylany
“I pour the ale, sweep the floors, and keep the slate honest. I am saving for something dear and I keep my head down.”
Things Anna Clark had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Christopher sent word from Kuttenberg that a buyer from Prague is looking at the silver hairpin. I have twenty groschen saved under the floorboards and I need twice that by Saint John's Day. I am stretching the ale with water as much as I dare but the miners notice.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron the entire time she spoke, speaking so fast I nearly missed the sum.
The third day of Easter week, at None
The tavern was entirely full of soldiers last night. Bozhena forgot the tallies three times and I had to count from memory to keep the landlord from losing his coin. I am so tired I can hardly stand, but I found two dropped pennies by the hearth.
You work too hard. A townsman's house in Kuttenberg is much cleaner, you must come here to me.
I will come when I have our mother's pin.
The feast of Saint Benedict, at Terce
I went across the square to buy flour, and Felice Lane looked at my patched apron as if I were a leper. I said nothing. I do honest work and I am keeping my head down, no matter how much she turns her nose up at us tavern girls.
I look at you because you buy the cheapest flour and leave mud on my stall, not because of your apron.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the merchant stall. She spoke very softly so the merchant would not hear.
The Wednesday after Saint Matthias, at Prime
Bozhena is weeping again for her late father Bartholomew, and I think she has lost the wooden comb he carved for her. She burned the pottage while crying. I told the landlord it was my doing, for she has enough grief.
You are too good to me, Anna. He was a good man and the sweating sickness took him too soon.
The morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
Two winters since my mother died of the chest fever. I dream of the silver hairpin my sister Juliana gave her, sitting on that stall in Kuttenberg. Forty groschen is a mountain of coin for a taproom maid, but I swear I will fetch it back.
Mother would not want you to ruin your hands over it, Anna.
Nota scribaeShe was sweeping the floorboards the whole time and made me stand in the corner to write.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Do not weep, Anna. Perhaps I can find some lost pennies under the benches tonight.