ore-washer at the stamping mill, of Kuttenberg
“I wash the silver ore at the Kuttenberg troughs. I do my quota, keep my head down, and remember those who deserve it.”
Things Alice had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday after Whitsun, at None
The water in the troughs is still bloody freezing today. I wrap my clothes tight against the chill, but the damp gets into your chest regardless. I will not end up like poor Standa. If the German master docks me for keeping my shawl on, he can rot.
Nota scribaeShe coughed twice while dictating this but fiercely forbade me to write it down.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
Juliana is weeping over her deaf mother Eleanor in Kolin again. A bloody nuisance. At least Eleanor is alive and warm in her bed, which is more than we can say for better men left in the mud at Maleshov.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Prime
Milena wore her warm wool shawl to the mill today. The same bloody shawl she wouldn't trade to buy medicine when a good man was dying of the flux in a draughty barn. Some women care more for sheep's wool than a Christian soul.
I would have frozen without it! Medicine wouldn't have saved him from the bloody flux anyway, it was God's will.
Nota scribaeDictated at the washing troughs. Her hands were blue from the cold water.
the eve of St Matthias, at Terce
The roads are thick with mud after the thaw. It reminds me of Joan, who cannot read a fallen marker to save her life. If she hadn't steered us down that treacherous path last autumn, the cart wouldn't have sunk and Standa wouldn't have burst his gut lifting the axle.
I read what was there! The freezing rain washed the chalk away, it was not my doing.
Candlemas, at Compline
Grete is demanding her tin plate back. I told her I am holding it as a pledge for the boots she owes me. The truth is she faked a fever to steal Standa's dry spot in the wagon, pushing him out into the rain. She won't see this plate until she confesses.
Give me my plate, you thief! I was sick with a burning head, I didn't fake anything!
Give it back to her, Alice. The Lord alone knows what happened on that road.
Nota scribaeShe was striking the tin plate against a table as she spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Come sit by the fire tonight, Alice. You sound terrible.
I am fine, bloody hell. Just wash your rocks.