tavern servant in Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I serve ale to miners and merchants at the lokal and throw drunks out by their collars. It is hard work, but it keeps me fed.”
Things Anne Tanner had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
Alice comes in here acting like she belongs on the dirt floor with us, but she has a merchant father's roof over her head. She holds onto things that belong to both of us, waiting for that penniless soldier of hers to return. Give me my half, you selfish girl. I need the groschen.
Nota scribaeShe was crossing her arms tightly across her chest the entire time she spoke, shouting over the din of the miners.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
Mary just rolls her eyes when I ask her to speak to the carters going south. My sister Adleta is down there, and no one has heard a word since the war started. Is it too much to ask a merchant if he has seen a girl from Kuttenberg on the road?
I told you, Anne, the merchants have their own troubles with the soldiers. Stop pestering every man who walks in for a pint.
I know how you feel. I ask John Weaver to send word north to my mother Elizabeth every day. It is like shouting at a stone wall.
the Thursday before Palm Sunday, at None
These hired hands think that because I carry their ale they can put their grasping hands wherever they please. I swear by the Holy Mother, the next miner who tries it will get a pitcher of stale beer over his head. I work twice as hard as any merchant's daughter.
It was just a joke, Anne. God's nails, you have a sharp tongue.
Leave her be, Fritz, or I will throw you out myself.
Nota scribaeDictated while wiping down the boards. Her hands were red from lye soap.
St Gregory's day, at Sext
Bread is dearer again this week. With the Hungarian soldiers on the roads, the flour barely makes it to town. It reminds me of the camps last year, when Alice and I followed the levy. Nothing out there but mud, blood, and empty pockets.
Just keep hauling the water, Anne. As long as the miners drink, we will have bread to eat.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
I saw William sitting in the corner again last night with his watered ale, looking like the world had ended. We are all of us alone in this town, it seems. I just wish I knew if my sister was still drawing breath. The not knowing is a terrible thing.
The boy needs to accept that his mother is likely gone. You should do the same about your sister, Anne. It is a cruel world.
Do not listen to him, Anne. We will get word to them eventually. We have to.
Nota scribaeShe dictated this before the earliest miners arrived, looking very tired.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your voice down, Anne! We agreed to wait. If the bailiff hears you, we will both swing for it.