washerwoman by the river, of Kuttenberg
“I ruin my hands in the freezing river while the others bicker over pennies. I am meant for Prague, not this mud.”
Things Clemence Stone had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
I spent my last two pennies on a pot of goose fat. My knuckles are split open from the cold water, and the river mud never washes out. If I must ruin my youth scrubbing wool, I will at least have soft hands when he returns for me.
the second day of Easter week, at None
The Hungarians marched out. I sneaked away to see Kunz off, but I could not find him in the throng. Instead, I saw a painted woman with the baggage carts wearing Uncle Benesh's silver ring on a cord. Kunz must have lost it to a thief in the camp. I wept all the way home.
He gave it away to a whore, you foolish girl. I told you what he was.
He was robbed! He swore to wear it into battle!
Nota scribaeShe wept while telling this, soaking my sleeve with her tears.
the feast of St Gertrude, at Terce
My father Kvyetoslav is a cruel man. He called my Kunz a vagabond who would drink my dowry in a week. He says I must never speak to him again, but my heart is pledged. Kunz will take me to see the great stone bridge in Prague, far from these stinking vats.
You will stay by the wash tub until you learn sense, or I will throw you out in the street.
the Tuesday after St Matthias, at Sext
Gerta and Cunne are screaming at each other again over a spilled pot of dye and some wretched pewter jug. I pity them. They are like prisoners fighting over the straw in their cell. I looked up at the clouds and prayed for the day a brave man takes me from this yard.
It was my good blue dye, and you would care too if your head was not full of fairy tales.
She bumped my elbow on purpose!
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by loud shouting from the weavers' yard.
Candlemas, at Prime
The water at the river was half frozen today. I had to break the ice with a stone before I could even begin on the weavers' woollens. I hate the smell of wet sheep and the aching in my back. I am too tired to even eat my bread.
Come sit by the fire. We can listen to Svatava complain about her mother's dirt patch instead.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will smell like a roast goose in the cellar tonight.