clothes mender and washer, of Kuttenberg
“Lord knows I am only waiting for my Julian to return from the King's wars with his fortune. Then I will be free of this miserable alley and my father's endless shouting.”
Things Yarka Carter had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Lord knows the dust on the road is thick today, but no soldiers came down it. My father Hynek stood by the hearth and told me Julian is dead in a ditch and I should look at the tanner's boy. I crossed my arms and told him he cares more for burghers' opinions than his own daughter's heart.
Nota scribaeShe spoke so fast I had to ask her to repeat the insult twice.
the Monday after Quasimodo Sunday, at None
Sybil Thatcher and Constance Polner have been squabbling all morning over those tailoring shears they lent at Candlemas. Lord knows I am sick of hearing about pennies and cloth. Lettice Green is weeping over a lost brass thimble again. I wish they would all just hold their tongues so I could think in peace.
If your head wasn't full of Hungarian mud and a worthless boy, you'd know shears cost good silver.
It was my mother's thimble. It is all I had left of her.
Tuesday of Holy Week, at Terce
Scrubbing pots at the public well today until the water froze my fingers. Lord knows it is hard work keeping the grime off my father's tunics when he does nothing but complain. Every time I see a rider on the Prague road my heart leaps, but it is only ever merchants.
Less looking at the road, more scrubbing, Yarka. The ash isn't taking the grease out.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
I sat on the front step with Rose Vorsucher as the bells rang. Her father is just as blind as mine. He thinks Philip took that mint silver, but Lord knows it was just jealous Germans putting the blame on him. Philip will send for her, just as my Julian will come back with a purse full of groschen.
They're both thieves or drunkards, Yarka. You two are dreaming if you think either of them kept a single groschen.
Keep your sour words for your own house, Drahomira.
Nota scribaeShe kept digging her fingers into her sleeves as she spoke.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
The winter is brutal and the tanning pits are frozen solid. I have spent the whole month huddled by the hearth while my father Hynek threatens to throw me out if I speak Julian's name. I spoke it twice this morning. Lord knows I won't let him marry me off to some fat tradesman who smells of old leather.
I said it on Epiphany and I say it now. I will not have that boy's name spoken under my roof.
Nota scribaeDictated in the alleyway. The father was shouting from the window.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are a foolish girl wasting your youth on a drunkard who left his slates unpaid across town.
Do not listen to them, Yarka. Philip will send for me from Prague, and Julian will return for you.