washerwoman of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I keep my head down and my hands in the water. I do not like to draw the eye.”
Things Sarah had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Trinity Sunday, at Vespers
I saw Helena today in the market. She was wearing the stout leather jerkin I paid three groschen for before the muster last year. I looked at the cobbles and said nothing, but I need it back before they call the levy again.
Nota scribaeShe spoke so softly I had to ask her to repeat it thrice.
the Tuesday after the Invention of the Holy Cross, at None
Bread is dearer again. Joanna complains bitterly that we have no coin, and expects a miracle to fall from the sky. I keep my hands buried in my apron. I wish I could buy a white loaf, but if I did, they would all look at me.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
The water in the stream is freezing today, and the lye is biting my hands worse than usual. Lida sent word down to the cellar that we must pay her coins by Saturday or sleep in the street. I scrubbed six garrison tunics today. My back aches.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Terce
I woke in the night and saw Hannah the maidservant near my corner. I wrapped my blanket tight and pretended to sleep. I pray she was only looking for her own comb. I must keep my sack closer to my ribs from now on.
I was only looking for a rag to bind my foot, you foolish mouse.
Nota scribaeDictated in the corner of the church porch, looking constantly over her shoulder.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
The bailiff's men walked past the stream today. I dropped my brush and could barely breathe until they turned the corner. I still dream of the mud at the militia camp last summer, and the men running, and the things left behind in the muck.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I wore it to keep the chill off, Sarah. You hardly need it for washing tunics in the stream.
Please, Helena, it cost me a month's washing.