bathhouse maid at certovka, of Certovka
“I boil the water and scour the silver dust off the miners. A thankless task that ruins a woman's hands.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The heat is already turning the outbuilding into an oven. Ellen and I hauled enough water to float a boat, and Edmund has not sent a single groschen for our labor. I would gladly spit in his ale. At least Lida fought for us.
Nota scribaeThe woman spat on the floor upon mentioning the landlord's name.
the third day of Easter week, at None
With the Hungarians on the roads the miners are drinking harder and sweating more fear. Means more coin for the tubs, but the bread prices are criminal. Hid three copper pennies under the floorboards today. One day I will walk away from this rotting shed.
the Feast of the Annunciation, at Sext
Woke up with my shins soaked again because the bowl overflowed in the rain. And Elizabeth Cooper has the gall to sit in the only dry corner of the loft, weeping over a lost brass pin. Christ almighty, some girls do not know what suffering is.
It was a very dear pin, given to me by my mother.
Leave the girl alone, Joan. Not all of us have your thick skin.
Nota scribaeShe swore more profusely than is written.
the second day of Lent, at Prime
These hewers crawl out of the earth bringing half the bloody mine in their pores. Scrubbed three of the whoresons today and the water turned black as pitch. Amice was praying the whole time, which scarcely gets the dirt off.
the Feast of St Valentine, at Compline
The heavy snows crushed the slates right over my pallet last night. Edmund says we must buy new ones with our own pennies. The tight-fisted bastard. Lida is barely cold in her pauper's grave and already he treats us like beasts of burden.
My back aches just thinking of the hauling we did today. You can share my blanket tonight.
A landlord is not responsible for the weather, you ungrateful girl.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the boiler. Her hands were red from the lye.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, my shoulders are sore as a blacksmith's anvil. We need double the bread for this work.
Hold your peace, girls, before he turns us all out onto the road.