baker's wife and housekeeper, of Kuttenberg
“I keep the accounts and run the bakery while my husband Kunz sleeps. Someone has to see we do not end up beggars in the street.”
Things Alice had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Compline
I took a fresh loaf across the river to Madlen. She is bedridden with a bad leg, poor soul. At least there is one woman in this town who understands the heavy burden of a house and knows how to keep a confidence.
Nota scribaeShe dictated this while wrapping a shawl tightly around her shoulders, looking toward the door.
the Friday after Saint George, at None
Nicholas von Marsh is a bold-faced thief. The boundary marker between our yards moved a whole yard into my land on Saint George's day. I am not blind. I want the priest to come walk the true line and witness it before the mud settles.
The stone has sat there since the days of King Charles. Your eyes are failing you.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Vespers
I will say it once more so it is written in the book. Else will not marry Endres. He is a penniless hired hand from a locked mill outside the parish. My daughter will marry a secure trade, not a beggar's life.
He works hard from dawn to dusk, mother! You only care for your ledgers and flour sacks.
And flour sacks are what keep you from starving. You will thank me when you have a roof over your head.
the fourth day of Lent, at Prime
Kunz is wailing again about demons knocking at the old cess-pit door in the cellar. He is terrified to go down there. I told him he ate bad pork. It is only miners walking the lane at midnight, grunting in the dark, but he will not listen.
I heard the scratching, Alice! No miner breathes like that. We must have the priest bless the cellar.
I lost my footing in that lane three nights ago. No demons, master baker, just mud and bad ale.
Nota scribaeThe husband was standing nearby, looking fearful. She spoke sharply to be heard over him.
the Tuesday after Candlemas, at Terce
The soldiers on the roads have made flour dearer than silver. I must set the hired hands to kneading before the sun is even up just to make a day's coin, and still Kunz snores until the bread is already baking. It takes a firm hand to keep this bakery from ruin.
It is the same everywhere, Alice. A groschen buys half what it did last spring.
Nota scribaeShe dictated this while counting pennies into a wooden box. I was made to wait until she was finished.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
That loudmouthed gossip ought to pray more and talk less. You spend too much time there, wife.
She is a sick widow and I am doing a Christian mercy. Go back to sleep, Kunz.