bartender at the certovka, of Certovka
“I pour the ale here at the Certovka. It's endless work, mostly dodging the Kuttenberg miners when they come off their shift with heavy hands and too much thirst.”
Things Elizabeth Cooper had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the second Tuesday in May, at None
The miners from the silver works came in covered in dust and loud enough to wake the dead. One of them tried to grab my apron strings, but Alice gave him a clout. It's too much. The rain started again, and the other girls are setting out the wooden bowls in the loft.
the Feast of St Mark, at Vespers
I keep touching my collar, forgetting it's gone. Amice ruined her only good apron digging in the yard muck for it. She didn't find it, of course. My mother's brass cloak-pin is swallowed by the earth, just like she was. A single groschen to a pawnbroker, but it was all I had left.
Don't fret over the apron, sweetheart. The mud washes out. The Holy Mother will guide your eye to the pin when it's meant to be found.
You are too good to me, Amice. I will help fold the heavy linens tonight.
Nota scribaeShe wept during this and asked me to write it quickly.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Terce
The yard between the tavern door and the bathhouse is thick with muck from the spring rains. I lost it. My mother's brass cloak-pin slipped from my fingers. If anyone finds it, please tell me. I haven't stopped crying since Matins.
We will rake the yard until Vespers, Lizzie. We'll find it.
the first week of Lent, at Prime
Edmund's boy came to collect the silver groschen today. He wouldn't even look at the broken slates on the outbuilding roof. He said Edmund lives up by the Italian Court and doesn't care if we catch a chill, only that the coin is counted right.
I'd gladly spit in his face. Let him sleep under a leaking roof and see how he likes counting his groschen.
The slates will be mended when the profits rise. Stop your whining and pour more ale.
Nota scribaeDictated at the edge of the yard. She would not look up from the floor.
the eve of Ash Wednesday, at Compline
Lida is in the ground. I laid a sprig of dried rosemary on her pauper's grave. She yelled if a penny was missing, but she made sure there was bread in the pantry and kept the miners in line. I don't know who will protect us now.
Rest her soul. But don't you worry, little bird. I'll look out for you now.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I'll clout him harder next time, the whoreson. You stay behind the bar where it's safe.
Bloody animals, the lot of them. We should mix horse piss in their ale.