ore-washer at the stamping mill, of Kuttenberg
“I wash ore from dawn till dusk to keep a roof over my head and starvation from my door. I just want the winter to pass and the old widow's house to be quiet again.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I made certain to hold my hands up high and empty when walking through the mill gates today. Peter the foreman was watching with those unblinking eyes of his. A girl was thrown out last month for hiding a tiny flake of silver in her apron, and I will not lose my four groschen a week for anything.
Nota scribaeShe sighed heavily before every sentence.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Kunigunde will not let it rest. She tells the whole market that my laziness killed Standa the carter. I tell her again, it was an honest mistake on the road from Maleshov. The marker blew over and I was too exhausted to check it. Isabel was talking to him anyway, distracting him from the ruts.
Your guilt gnaws at you, girl. You guessed the path to save your own feet, and a good man died of the bloody flux for it.
Do not lay his mud-bound cart at my door, Joan. He strained his gut because the wheel was deep, not because I spoke to him.
I only want to be left in peace. I did not push the cart into the ditch.
Nota scribaeShe dropped her gaze to the floor while saying this.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at None
The house is fractured again. Alice and Grete are screaming over a tin plate. Alice claims she holds it as a pledge until Grete admits her sins on the road. I am staying out of it. The soup is thin enough without swallowing bile at the table.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
The water in the sorting troughs was half frozen this morning. I wrapped my cracked feet in dirty rags before dawn, but the chilblains still burn. I smell of sulphur from my hair to my toes. Four groschen a week is a hard price for this misery, but bread is dearer than last year.
It is cruel work, Joan. I save every penny I can for my mother in Kolin, but my hands are like raw meat.
the eve of Candlemas, at Compline
Tattered John says the soldiers on the roads are requisitioning everything that moves, but I have nothing for them to take. I just want Standa's name to be forgotten. Every time I close my eyes I see that heavy axle in the ditch. I wish we had never gone to that militia camp.
God keeps the tally, Joan. The soldiers take the bread, but the Lord takes the soul. Keep your head down.
Nota scribaeDictated in a whisper, as if afraid someone in the boarding house might hear.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You did right, Joan. That German would take our last breath if he could tally it.