maidservant at Horany, of Horany
“I boil the pottage, scrub the iron pots, and do the work of two because the master won't hire help and Joan only weeps.”
Things Vlasta had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Christ's wounds! I swept the yard bare yesterday, and today there are holes dug everywhere by the woodpile. Alice is tearing up the dirt again looking for that bone hairpin her mother Yarka left her. I told her the dirt won't give it back, but she won't listen. Now I have to sweep it all flat again before the master sees.
Nota scribaeDictated while she swept furiously with a birch broom. She struck the scribe's boots twice.
the Wednesday before the feast of Saint John of Beverley, at None
They say the bread in Kuttenberg is costing a penny more than it did a month ago. I don't see how. We still haul the same water and scrub the same pots. If the king was here instead of those Hungarians, maybe the flour wouldn't be so dear, but the master still expects his meal early no matter what.
Saint George's day, at Sext
The day is here and I only have five groschen scraped together. I gave them to Peshek, but the miser says it's not enough. He was sitting on his porch with his cudgel, swearing he'll drown Amiable in the Vidlak pond if I don't find the rest. I stole a bit of salted meat to give the dog a decent meal tonight, just in case.
Eight groschen for three prize hens, woman! Not a penny less. Keep that mutt tied up or he goes in the pond.
Don't look at me. It wasn't me who left the barn gate unlatched.
Christ's wounds, Gilbert! You were wrestling him in the dirt! You left the iron latch up when the master called you!
Nota scribaeShe spoke in a hurried whisper, looking repeatedly toward the master's larder.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Joan has been weeping on the bench since dawn. I know she misses Humphrey—he was a quiet man—but the pots won't scrub themselves. I did her share and my own, and my knuckles are raw and bleeding. The master won't hire another hand, and I can't carry this whole household while she cries for a man a year in the ground.
He used to whittle those little toys. It's the spring that brings it back to me. I'm sorry, Vlasta.
Get back to the kitchen, Vlasta. I want my pottage hot, not salty with tears.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Terce
That whoreson Gilbert forgot the latch on the barn gate! Amiable got out and dug under Peshek's fence, and now Peshek says the dog killed three of his hens. He came marching into the yard with a cudgel demanding eight groschen! Eight! Where am I to find eight groschen? Gilbert says I left the gate open when I was hanging laundry. Liar!
I dropped the latch! You were running past with the wet woolens and knocked it loose!
I'll box your ears, boy! You were rolling in the muck with him!
Nota scribaeThe maidservant was shouting by the end. The scribe asked her to lower her voice.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It has to be there, Vlasta. I know I dropped it by the woodpile. It's all I have left.
Then find it on your own time, girl, and fill the holes when you're done!