washerwoman at the washhouse, of Kuttenberg
“I scrub dirt from miners' shirts for a few coppers. I am only here until my betrothed finds me and takes me back to our village.”
Things Denise had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Sext
I saw a man on the Prague road in a weaver's coat and I swear it was Endres. He must be looking for me. I begged Felice to run after him with a message, but she refused. The soldiers in the square banged their spears and made me jump, and I lost sight of him.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her apron into a tight knot the entire time she spoke, never looking up.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at Vespers
The lye split my hands open again today. Three Hungarian soldiers brought me tunics crusted with blood and mud, shouting in their barking tongue. I kept my eyes fixed on their boots and scrubbed until the water turned pink. I cannot bear this loud, cruel town much longer.
Better your hands bleed in the washhouse than your neck bleeds on the road. Do the work and keep your head down.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Bridget is a bitter old hen. The nights are freezing in my attic and the rain drips right on my straw, yet she still holds my fine linen hostage. I only gave it to her to keep the bold mice from chewing it! I owe her nothing for those bitter herbs she bought.
You owe me eight groschen for the apothecary, you ungrateful girl. Admit the debt plain as day and you can have your cloth back.
Just say you owe the coin, Denise. You will catch your death up there without a warm shift.
Nota scribaeShe spoke very fast, the words tumbling over each other.
the feast of the Annunciation, at Terce
I crossed the street this morning so I would not have to walk past Kethe. Ever since Karl died of the bloody flux, she has a look in her eye that terrifies me. I pity her, truly, but I have my own troubles. I must find someone to carry word to my village that I am alive.
I saw you scurrying away like a frightened mouse. Keep your distance, I do not need your pity.
the morrow of Candlemas, at None
I bought a lovely bolt of fine linen to sew myself a decent shift, but the winter fever has taken me terribly. My chest rattles and I am shivering on my pallet. Bridget went to the apothecary for herbs to make me sweat it out. She is harsh, but I suppose I am grateful.
Drink the broth and rest. Sickness takes us all in this damp.
Nota scribaeDictated from a straw bed, her teeth chattering so loud I could barely hear her.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I told you it was just an old beggar with a limp. Endres is gone, Denise. You have to let it lie.
He is not gone, he is just lost on the roads. You simply do not want to walk that far for me.