head of the household, of Kuttenberg
“I am the one keeping the roof over our heads, though I get no thanks for it. The King takes his taxes in silver, not in sentiment.”
Things Grete Hartmann had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
The tax collector came again today. I had the groschen counted and ready, thank the Lord and my own hard sense. If we lived by my sister's tears we would be sleeping in the mud by now. Necessity is a cold bedfellow, but it pays the King.
Nota scribaeShe tapped her fingers on the ledger the entire time she spoke.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
I spent the morning on the ladder looking at the roof. The damp is getting in above the old forge. I told the supplier he wants too much for coarse wool to patch the holes, but prices are foul everywhere since the soldiers came. A roof must be tight, or the rot takes it all.
Easter Sunday, at Compline
I sat at the head of the table for the feast, as is my duty. Else served the mutton. It is very quiet in this house. I told Else to tell Christina the meat was tough, and Christina told Else to tell me that a bitter mouth spoils sweet meat. Bloody hell, I am tired of this.
I am tired of walking from one end of the table to the other, mistress.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Terce
I went to the lower town to see if any buyer wanted the last of the bellows. Saw Martha at Mass, looking very pleased with herself. Bread is dearer than last year, thanks to Sigismund's whoresons on the roads. Father was a master with steel, but a fool with a tab, and his debts do not pay themselves.
He was a brilliant craftsman! You know nothing of his art, only his coin.
Nota scribaeShe sighed heavily and rubbed her temples before dictating.
the day after Saint Blase, at Prime
It is done. I sold father's heavy silver cloak-clasp to the merchant Jacob for twenty groschen. He took it with him to Prague. The winter taxes are due, and silver in a chest keeps nobody warm. It was my right to sell it. Some in this house would rather starve than part with a shiny trinket.
You had no right! That was mine by right of love. You are a thief of his soul!
I am the saviour of your stomach, you ungrateful girl.
Nota scribaeDictated in the market square. She counted her coins twice before speaking.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You sold his memory for twenty groschen. Do not speak of tears.
Mistress Christina says the pottage is getting cold, Mistress Grete.