linen scrubber and water hauler, of Kuttenberg
“I do what needs doing in the yard while my uncle is away. I pay what I owe, and I take what is owed to me.”
Things Lida Clark had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The spring thaw has made a dung-pit of the yard again. I lost a perfectly good shoe by the trough because the pigs root where they please and the older women sweep like blind men. That is just how it is, but I will have the hide off the next beast that trips me.
Nota scribaeShe kicked the table leg heavily to demonstrate her anger.
the second Tuesday in May, at None
The bucket handle came loose today. The knives are dull enough to ride to Sedletz on. If Uncle Maresh does not come back from the wagon levies soon, this whole courtyard will fall to pieces. I keep his room bolted, just in case he returns tonight.
We all miss Maresh. He was a good hand with a stone.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Kvyetoslava Baker was shouting again for her copper mixing paddle. I told her straight: she owed me for that flour from last summer, and a debt is a debt. I have the paddle wrapped in a sack under my bed. I consider the matter settled.
You little thief! That flour was spoiled and you know it. Give me back my copper!
The flour baked fine. You will not see the copper until the Day of Judgment.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly enough for the Baker woman to hear across the yard.
the Friday before Laetare Sunday, at Sext
Sovka Smith walked past the trough today and did not say a word, still sour over old Yarka coughing her last at Martinmas. If Sovka wants to act like a stone, I will treat her like one. I will not give an inch to anyone in this yard.
Leave her be, Lida. Yarka's stretching lines are still up, making everyone gloomy.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
Ursel begged me again to carry a letter to Prague for her mother Bohushka. I told her no, bluntly. I poked my finger right at her chest so she heard me. I am not getting my throat cut by a hungry Cuman just to carry paper to a ghost.
She is not a ghost! She fled the soldiers, she is waiting for word from me.
The roads are dead, Ursel. Accept it, and stop pestering me.
Nota scribaeThe maidservant Ursel was weeping in the corner the whole time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Christ almighty, Lida, it is only mud. Wash your foot and have done with it.