hired hand at the bakery, of Kuttenberg
“I pull hot loaves and haul sacks for the master baker. All I want is to get word to my family up north that I am not dead yet.”
Things Katchka Baker had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Ottilie is walking north tomorrow and flatly refuses to take my words to my family. She hoards her freedom out of pure spite to watch us poor girls suffer. I hope a cart throws mud on her.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms and sighed heavily before speaking every single sentence.
the eve of St George, at Sext
Katherine Wald walked past the alley while I was eating my burnt crusts today. She looked at me like I was a rat in her meal bin. She only has a nice house because she found a husband.
If you washed the white dust off your face once in a while, perhaps a man would look at you.
I wash well enough. Go back to your stone house and leave us to our bread.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
They say there are Hungarian mercenaries on the roads, making trouble for travelers. I do not believe my family is gone. The roads are fine for anyone brave enough to walk them, but nobody in Kuttenberg has the courage.
My cousin saw the soldiers near the monastery. You should pray for your family instead of shouting at us.
Nota scribaeThe girl was visibly frightened but refused to admit it.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Vespers
My back aches from hauling heavy sacks of flour all morning, and the master only gave me half a broken loaf today. At least the ovens keep the cellar warm at night while the frost still bites outside.
It is cold work hauling water for my master too. I will share a penny with you if I find one.
Nota scribaeDictated near the bakery steps. She was covered in white dust.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
I have asked three travelers in the lower town to carry a few words to my village, and they all walked away. I am completely stuck here. If they think I am dead up there, it will break my mother's heart.
The carters are afraid of the tolls and the soldiers, Katchka. Nobody is traveling just to be kind.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
She is a wicked woman, Katchka. We are entirely without charity in this town.
The roads are closed, you foolish girl. I am not risking my neck for a verbal message to a burnt village.