bartender at the certovka, of Certovka
“I pour the ale here at the Certovka and keep the miners from breaking the place. Since Lida passed, someone has to look out for the girls.”
Things Alice Miller had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at Compline
Another night shifting the bucket beside my pallet to catch the drip. My hands are raw from wiping down tables and I caught myself coughing this morning. If I end up in a pauper's grave like Lida because of this damp, I swear I will haunt Edmund until the day of judgment.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron three times while speaking this.
The third day of May, at Vespers
A hewer from the lower shaft grabbed at Elizabeth today. I took a wooden tankard to his knuckles and told him to pay his tab or get out. The poor girl is still crying over that brass cloak-pin she lost in the yard, she does not need dirty hands pulling at her skirts.
Thank you, Alice. It was a good pin. My mother gave it to me.
The Wednesday after Easter, at None
Edmund sent his boy for the takings. I had every groschen tallied, not a penny missing. The fat coward sits in his stone house near the Italian Court while we freeze in the outbuilding. But I held a pitcher back from the cellar to warm the girls tonight. Don't tell the boy.
It is not theft if it keeps us from freezing to death in his broken house.
Nota scribaeI advised against putting the theft of ale in the book. She told me to write it anyway.
The first week of Lent, at Prime
Soldiers on the roads mean the alehouse is full of men who drink like swine and pay like beggars. My back aches from hauling casks all yesterday. At least Ellen carried the heavy water buckets this morning without a single word of complaint. God bless strong backs.
It had to be done. You do enough for us with the slates.
The Monday after Candlemas, at Terce
The heavy snow broke the slates on the outbuilding roof. Edmund sent word that he refuses to pay for repairs, saying we can buy the slates ourselves. Lida died of a lung fever just days ago and is hardly cold in the pauper's earth, and already the man shows what a whoreson he is.
Lida would have dragged him down here by his ears and made him patch it with his own fine clothes.
Nota scribaeDictated in the taproom. The word she used for her master was considerably fouler.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will help you haunt the tight-fisted bastard. He deserves worse than ghosts.
I will pray for your lungs, Alice. And for Edmund's heart to soften.