water hauler at the smithy, of Kuttenberg
“I haul the water and keep the quenching barrel full. Let the other women cluck by the trough, I have real work to do.”
Things Sovka Smith had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday after Whitsun, at Vespers
My shoulders ache from hauling, but I filled the quenching barrel faster than any hired hand could today. It is hot enough to melt stone by the forge. If any of the women in the yard had the sense to ask, I might share a cup with them.
Nota scribaeShe said this while glaring out the window at the washing trough.
the eve of the Ascension, at Terce
I dropped a full bucket this morning and my knees have ached ever since. People say a chest chill took old Yarka, but she left her malice behind to rot my bones. I am stronger than her ill-wishing, no matter what the devil heard last year.
Yarka was a good soul. You have only your own wicked tongue to blame for your misery.
Her stitching was a disgrace and you know it.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Kvyetoslava is wailing about her lost copper paddle again. I saw Lida slip it away with my own two eyes, just like Marushka keeps that brass sieve. They are all thieves, snapping at each other, but I say nothing. Let them rob themselves blind.
You are a liar, Sovka! My uncle Maresh bought me my paddle before the levy took him.
Nota scribaeDictated very quietly so the yard would not hear.
the Monday after St Gregory, at None
Ursel will not stop whining about her mother Bohushka fleeing to Prague from the soldiers. The roads are crawling with Hungarians and mercenaries. Nobody is carrying letters to Prague, and weeping into the laundry will not make bread any cheaper in Kuttenberg.
You have a stone where your heart should be.
Candlemas, at Prime
The priest tells us to be cleansed for the feast, but I have nothing to repent. I told Yarka the truth about her useless hands last Martinmas. She pointed her crooked finger at me and croaked her curse, but I will not be the first to break the silence.
You cursed a dying woman over a shirt. God will judge you, Sovka.
Nota scribaeShe held her jaw tight while she spoke and refused to look at the cross.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
We have our own water, Sovka. Keep your charity.