washer at the stamping mill, of Kuttenberg
“I sort rock in cold water to earn my keep. I let the other fools squabble.”
Things Isabel had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Another week in the cold water, another four groschen. If I hide away enough coppers, I can finally take the road south to Caslav. Better there than ending up with cracked hands like old Kunigunde, trapped at the washing troughs forever.
the feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, at None
Juliana is weeping again about her deaf mother up in Kolin. She wants me to carry a letter north. I am not wasting a day walking the wrong way for an old woman who does not even know her daughter went to camp.
She thinks I died in the mud, Isabel! It would only take you one day.
Walk it yourself, Juliana. I am going south.
Nota scribaeDictated at the washing troughs. The subject rolled her eyes heavily before speaking.
the Friday after Easter, at Terce
Bread costs more but Peter expects the same pile of washed silver. He docks a penny if you so much as sneeze. I give him exactly four groschen worth of sweat and not a drop more. Let the King wash his own rocks.
You will wash the ore as you are told, or you will find yourself on the street.
At least he pays on time. Poor Standa was a kinder man, God rest his soul.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
Joan is at it again. She says I distracted Standa on the muddy road last autumn and made his cart sink. Christ almighty, the man was up to his knees in mud and swearing. He wasn't looking at any woman.
You were standing right there wagging your jaw, and he broke his gut on that wheel because of it!
He died of the bloody flux, you stupid cow. Mud didn't shit him to death.
Nota scribaeI have omitted several coarse words concerning the late carter's bowels and the mud.
the eve of Candlemas, at Compline
Back to the boarding house for thin cabbage soup. Alice and Grete are screeching over a borrowed tin plate again. I hold my bowl, keep my head down, and pretend I am deaf. Let them fight.
It is my plate, Isabel, she took it when we came back from the militia camp!
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My hands earned my keep, girl. See if yours can do the same when you have seen as many winters as I have.