washerwoman and hired hand, of Kuttenberg
“I work my hands to the bone in the yard and earn my keep. Fair is fair.”
Things Marushka Mason had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
The soldiers are eating this town hollow and bread costs more groschen every week. I spent the whole morning hauling water and had only a plain pottage to show for it. Saint Barbara give me patience. A woman has to look after herself when times are this hard.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms tight over her chest the entire time she spoke.
the Thursday after St Philip and St James, at None
Kona is asking after his stone-chisel again. I told him he left it in my room after I spent three whole evenings mending his heavy cloak. The draught in my chamber is terrible and the chisel makes a perfectly good doorstop. The cold is no joke. Fair is fair.
I need that chisel for my trade, Marushka. Mending a torn cloak does not buy good iron.
My good stitches keep the bitter wind off your back, Kona. Be glad for them.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
Lida Clark still has Kvyetoslava Baker's copper mixing paddle and I had a good laugh about it by the washing trough today. Kvyetoslava is far too tight-fisted anyway. Lida and I understand each other perfectly well. If someone takes your time and effort, you take something back.
My uncle Maresh used to fix her buckets for nothing, so the paddle is mine by right now.
Both of you are thieves and the Lord sees every sin you commit in that yard.
the Friday after St Gregory, at Prime
My arms are sore from scrubbing linens all week. I went to the alley to use Yarka's old stretching lines, God rest her soul, and Sovka Smith glared at me without a word. A silent woman in a shared yard is worse than useless. I surely miss old Yarka.
That old seamstress had a wicked tongue and I am glad I do not have to hear it anymore.
Nota scribaeDictated standing at the washing trough. The lye soap smelled very harsh.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Vespers
I helped Kvyetoslava Baker with a massive batch of rye dough yesterday and my arms are still aching from the labor. She lent me her fine brass flour-sieve for my own use today. I think I will just keep it. It is fair payment for all my honest sweat.
Give it back at once! A brass sieve is not a wage for kneading bread.
You put in the sweat, you get something back. The ledger is balanced.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is the truth. We work from dawn until dusk and still there is barely enough for the pot.