bathhouse maid, of Certovka
“I work the tubs and keep the linen white, Lord willing. It is an honest life, though the cold tests us sorely since Madam Lida passed.”
Things Amice had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
I ruined my only good apron in the muck looking for poor Elizabeth's brass cloak-pin. Saint Anthony, please guide our hands to it, for the poor girl has wept enough. Joan says cold water will get the mud out of the wool, but my apron is a sorry sight.
Nota scribaeShe showed me the apron. It is beyond saving.
The third day of Easter week, at Vespers
The miners brought in such grime today I thought the water would turn to solid earth. But the Lord gave me a gift for the white linen. Lye and elbow grease, and not a single grey streak left in the shirts, praise be.
You do good work, girl. Now come eat your pottage before it goes cold.
The feast of the Annunciation, at Prime
It rained in the night again. My bowl was full by Matins and the water dripped straight onto my face. Ellen is coughing. I pray Master Edmund's heart softens and he buys some slates, else the damp will take us just as it took Lida, God rest her.
The takings were short this week. Sleep closer to the dry wall and stop your complaining.
Lord preserve us, Master Edmund, we are pressed against the wall as it is.
The second week of Lent, at Terce
Master Edmund's boy came for the coin today. He took every penny and left nothing for firewood. When Lida was here, she kept us fed and warm. Now we eat a heel of bread by the copper boiler just to keep the chill out of our bones. God bless her soul.
Huddle close tonight, Amice. We will make it through.
That boy is a whoreson just like his master. I would spit in his eye if he did not hold the purse.
Nota scribaeDictated while she wrung out a heavy sheet. She wept a little.
The Wednesday after Candlemas, at Sext
The heavy snows have broken the slates on our outbuilding. We woke to freezing white dust all over our blanket. I crossed myself and prayed to Saint Anthony, but a prayer does not mend a roof. It is a harsh winter, Lord willing we see the spring.
Keep the fire hot under the boiler, girls. It is the only heat we have.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
God bless you for trying, Amice. It was my mother's.
I told you to leave it be. Now you have two messes and no pin.