housekeeper of the upper floors, of Kuttenberg
“I keep the master's chambers spotless at Hradecka and see that the servants do not idle. It requires a firm hand, for diligence is scarce.”
Things Anna had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Sext
Adam Vorsucher delivered flour and cheese today. I held my tongue on the flour's color, for we run on his grace until the country silver arrives. The girl Anna swept the gallery poorly again. I made her do it thrice. I will not have this house fall to ruin.
Nota scribaeDictated at the gate. She stood with her hands on her hips the entire time.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Ella Stein puts on such airs you would think she owned Hradecka herself. I gave her the heavy winter tapestries to mend. It is a tedious, dusty task, but it will keep her rooted to a stool and her nose out of the clouds where it does not belong.
My wife's eyes are straining in the dark, Anna. There is no need for such spite.
Tell her to sit closer to the window, Fritz, and mend the tear properly.
the Monday before Palm Sunday, at Terce
The hired hands in the yard were cursing like heathens this morning over a broken wagon wheel. I marched down and gave Hugh and Standa a sharp dressing down. My mother Kunigunde has enough worry with the unpaid wages without listening to their filth drifting up to the master's gallery.
Thank you, daughter. My head aches enough as it is.
God's wounds, the wheel was heavy. A man must say something when his foot is crushed.
Nota scribaeShe asked me to strike out the specific curse words they used, lest the Lord read them.
the feast of St Gregory, at Vespers
I hear Sovka is bedridden with a terrible fever. I told the maids this morning that heaven balances its own scales. I have forbidden Cecily and the others from carrying so much as a crust of bread to her door. What happened before Lent was her own doing.
You are both acting like children over a spilled basket. Let it rest.
I can hear you gloating from my sickbed, you proud hen.
the Thursday after Candlemas, at Prime
That village woman Sovka spoke out of turn and knocked over a basket of good white linens in the dirt. She expects me to ask forgiveness for raising my voice! I will see the river dry up before I speak to her again. My duty is to the linens, not her pride.
You placed the basket right where a cart must turn! It was your own foolishness!
The cart had room. You were looking at the sky and not your feet.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The flour is what I can get, Anna. The roads are foul with soldiers.
My arms ache from the broom, mistress.