bartender, of Kuttenberg
“I pour the ale and scrub the tables down at the tavern, and I try not to be any bother to anyone. It is honest work, truly it is, and I am sorry if I am speaking too fast.”
Things Alice Clark had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of St George, at Compline
I am so sorry to say it, but the refugees are pushing up the price of every dry bed in Kuttenberg. I wish I could afford the deposit to move out of Master Peter's house. I am terrified the floorboards will give way in the night and drop me into the cellar.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron the entire time she spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Joan Stone is the bravest woman I know. I try to do the extra sweeping and table scrubbing in the mornings so she can sit by the hearth a moment. The cold makes her joints ache so terribly, though she would skin me if she heard me say it.
I heard that. Get back to the taproom before the miners drink the barrels dry.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
Thomas spent his whole wage on ale again and had nothing for his belly. I gave him a piece of dark bread by the kitchen steps. We both hate Master Peter's house, but at least Thomas has the courage to refuse the rent. I am too frightened of the steward to try.
Thank you for the loaf, Alice. If Master Peter wants my coin he can come back from Prague and fetch it himself.
A fool and his groschen are soon parted at the dice table. Tell him to play better next time.
the first Thursday of Lent, at Terce
The miners were so loud last night, grabbing and spilling cheap ale everywhere. I washed so many mugs my hands are raw. Clara and Joan handle the worst of them, thank the Lord. I just keep my head down and try to wipe up the spills before anyone slips.
We were only having a bit of fun after a long shift in the dark, lass. No harm meant.
Aye, the ale was flowing well. You keep the tables clean enough.
Nota scribaeDictated in a great hurry.
Candlemas, at Prime
The autumn gales took the shingles off our roof, and every time it rains the water pours right through Thomas's ceiling and down onto my floor. Everything smells of wet wood and old rushes. I am sorry to complain, but my straw pallet is completely damp.
I am in Prague on important business. Have the steward patch it if it bothers you so much.
The steward does nothing! We are living in a puddle.
Nota scribaeShe apologized three times for making me write this down.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The Lord watches over the meek, Alice. Keep praying and stay away from the weakest beams.
I am not paying that bloodsucking steward a single groschen more until the roof is fixed.