washerwoman at the stream, of Kuttenberg
“I wash the town's shirts down below the Italian Court. I fear nothing save the silence from Prague.”
Things Katchka Mason had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the feast of St Sophia, at Vespers
Apollonia was shaking like a leaf today at the wash-boards. That stepfather of hers counts every crust of bread in their house. I bumped my hip hard into a fat wife who tried to push past the girl. Nobody rushes Apollonia while my elbows are out.
the Monday after Easter week, at Sext
I cornered Heinz at the town hall again today. I only ask that he find one rider going to Prague to tell my sister Katherine I am alive. He claims he never rides that way. The man is bone lazy and I told him so.
I am a porter here in Kuttenberg, woman! I do not ride to Prague, and shouting at my face will not buy me a horse.
You could find someone who does, if you were not standing idle by those doors all day.
Nota scribaeShe shouted this so loudly my ears rang. The porter Heinz looked quite distressed.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Cecily is the most stubborn, unchristian woman in this town. A girl begged her to carry word to Kolin, but she refuses to walk further than the Sedletz monastery. She could easily find a rider in Sedletz! It is a sin to leave family cut off.
I walk where my feet take me, Katchka. Sedletz is far enough, and I am not a courier for every weeping girl.
Leave her be, Katchka. Not everyone has your iron elbows.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Prime
The water is still half ice. My knuckles are raw as fresh mutton. Young Eve Wright spent the whole morning weeping over a lost bone comb in the mud. I pity the girl, going home to that cold stepmother of hers with a red face.
She will beat me for losing it. It cost three groschen at the market.
Nota scribaeDictated with hands so red from the cold water they looked scalded.
Ash Wednesday, at Vespers
The baker's boy said Sigismund's soldiers burnt another village north of here. It makes a woman worry. Katherine went to Prague in ninety-nine and I have heard nothing since. If the roads are full of soldiers, how will I know she is not dead?
Prague is a great city with strong walls. She is likely safe behind them, keeping her feet dry.
Poor Gerda died of a winter fever right here in her bed. Death finds us whether there are soldiers or no.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Thank you, Katchka. He noticed I dropped a shirt in the mud yesterday and I dared not tell him why.