kitchen maid at the cookshops, of Kuttenberg
“I sweat over tavern fires all day and come back to a cellar full of thieves.”
Things Lene had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Compline
Mandelina took a tumble down the rotting steps and now she is burning with fever. She coughs up terrible phlegm. Her mother died of the sweating sickness, and I swear she has it too. I am not going near her bed, I tell you. Ottilie should drag her to the monastery.
the eve of St George, at None
My arms ache from turning that heavy iron spit since first light. The fire blistered my cheek and the cook took the flat of his knife to me when I stopped to wipe my brow. And to top it all, bread costs more than it did a month ago.
I just want to go home. If any traveller would take a letter to my family, I would leave this place tomorrow.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
I tore my bedroll apart again this morning. The wooden bird my father carved for me is still gone. It is worth nothing to anyone else, but one of the wretches in this cellar stole it from my pocket while I slept. I know it.
Nobody wants your stupid piece of wood. Stop looking at me like that.
Nota scribaeShe checked her pockets three times while dictating this.
the Wednesday after St Gregory, at Prime
If you want proof this cellar is full of thieves, look at Clemence. She borrowed Ursel's bone sewing needle before Lent and will not give it back over some spilled beans. Kunz should throw her out into the street.
Candlemas, at Prime
The little wooden bird my father made me before the plague took him is gone. I reached into my pocket and there was nothing. It is the only thing I had left in the world. Whoever took it will burn in hell.
Perhaps it simply fell out while you were walking to the cookshops, Lene. Do not be so quick to curse us.
Nota scribaeThe woman spoke in a harsh whisper and seemed to trust no one in the room.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Have some pity, Lene. The poor girl is suffering and you just glare at her from the corner.
I will have pity when I am not dead of the sweat myself. Mind your own pawn tickets.