winemaker's daughter, of Kuttenberg
“I am a respectable burgher's daughter, suffering the profound tyranny of my own household. I must endure fools while my true love is away.”
Things Christine Barbora had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
The streets of Kuttenberg are full of unwashed refugees from burnt villages, ruining the air. My father claims his coin is drying up because the soldiers took his wine, but I know better. It is just another of his malicious choices, a sheer lack of silver meant to punish me.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by several drawn-out sighs.
the feast of St Pancras, at Sext
That useless maid Anna is slower than ever with the heavy washing tubs. She reeks of willow bark and expects pity, but I know she is just lazy. My dresses are not pressed to my liking, and nobody in this house understands how a proper home is kept.
My joints ache, mistress. I meant no disrespect to your gowns.
Then rub them with goose fat and work faster, instead of whining.
the second day of Easter week, at Terce
Grete is shouting across the yard again about her rotting roof, breaking the peace of the afternoon. She stands there demanding Nicholas fetch a ladder and pitch. I wish my father would just throw her out into the street. The noise is giving me a terrible megrim.
If your father fixed his late sister's roof like a Christian, I would have no need to shout.
Nota scribaeThe lady crossed her arms tightly over her chest when speaking of her neighbour.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Vespers
Tobias struts around the cellar doors like he is the King's own captain. The man is completely ridiculous. He lost Avice to a convent in Prague over a stupid tavern joke, and now he plays the fierce guard to hide what a fool he is. All men in my father's employ are dullards.
I did not lose her, mistress. She was a nag and I am better off.
You weep into your ale for her, you oaf. Do not try to lie to me.
Candlemas, at Prime
My father is a tyrant who cares only for ledgers. I decided before Advent that I would marry George, but my father forbade it absolutely. Then the bailiff called the levy, and George was marched away north with the royal army. My father thinks providence closed the matter, but I am betrothed in the sight of God.
He is a penniless apprentice trying to steal a lease. The matter is closed, and you will speak to me at supper.
George is a good lad, but the northern roads are dangerous. God keep him safe from the Hungarians.
Nota scribaeThe priest notes she refused to look up from her fingernails the entire time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The wine is gone, Barbora. You cannot drink sighs and you cannot buy linen with tears.