maidservant at the holding, of Horany
“I tend the fires, scrub the pots, and sweep the dirt. Lord above, there is no time to sit about with the chores piling up on me.”
Things Alice had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Lord above, my knees are raw from crawling in the dirt. I have sifted the dust behind the woodshed thrice over and there is no sign of it. That bone pin is the only thing my mother left me, and the earth has just swallowed it up. If I do not find it soon I will surely go mad.
Nota scribaeShe was checking her apron strings the whole time she spoke.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Gilbert and that bloody dog Amiable have ruined my morning. I had the yard swept spotless, and the beast comes tearing through covered in mud. Now Peshek is shouting from his porch about his dead hens and demanding eight groschen, and the master is in a foul temper. I am the one who has to clean the muck.
the eve of St George, at Terce
Joan has been sitting on the bench weeping for Humphrey again. I know what grief is, God rest his soul, but the pots will not scrub themselves. Vlasta and I are carrying the weight of three women, and Farmer Tuma will dock our pay if the hearth is not swept. Lord above, I am tired.
He was a good man. You have a stone for a heart, Alice.
Nota scribaeDictated in a very low voice so the widow would not hear.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Sext
There are more soldiers on the road today, kicking up dust for me to sweep. Prokop says the King's brother has sent them, but they just look like hungry men to me. Bread is dearer than last year, and the master is watching the flour sacks like a hawk. Keep your heads down, I say.
They are Cumans, girl. You would do well to stay in the outbuilding if they come to the gate.
Candlemas, at Compline
I cannot sleep for old Havel's hacking cough. The damp in that shed will be the end of him. I sneaked him a cup of hot broth when the master turned his back, but when I returned to the outbuilding my mother's bone hairpin was gone from my pocket. Lord above, I must have dropped it in the dark.
Bless you for the broth, lass. It warmed my old bones.
Nota scribaeThe girl seemed frantic, checking her pockets thrice before she left.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Give it a rest, Alice. You are snapping at everyone and sweeping the same patch of dirt will not bring it back.
I will sweep where I please, you mind the pots.