bartender at the lokal, of Kuttenberg
“I haul ale for miners all day, though my father thinks I should be sewing on a cushion. I earn my own coin and it is nobody's business what I do with it.”
Things Alice Turner had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Another week gone and still no word from Prague. The roads are foul with soldiers, but a man who knows his way could make it. I keep tapping my foot until the floorboards groan. I will not be tethered to my father's yard forever.
Nota scribaeShe tapped her foot the entire time she spoke.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Anne is in my ear again, whining about what is fair and what is owed. I told her to shut her mouth before the bailiff hears her. What is kept hidden stays safe. She cannot see beyond the end of her own nose.
You know what you hold, Alice. Adleta would tell me to take what is mine.
Whatever you two are whispering about, keep it out of the till.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at midnight
Bloody hell, the miners drank the cellar dry tonight. I have hauled enough pitchers to drown a horse. One drunken sod grabbed my skirt and caught a wooden platter to the jaw for his trouble. Honest dirt is better than the merchant's parlor.
Alice, please, this is no life for you. Come home and sit with me.
I am perfectly fine where I am, mother.
Nota scribaeDictated the morning after, while her hands were red from scrubbing.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at Terce
Bread is dearer again today. They say the King's brother has his Hungarians burning everything north of here. If they come to Kuttenberg they will find nothing but stone and angry men. I just want the silver I earn to hold its worth.
It is the tolls on the roads bleeding us dry, Alice. And the soldiers take the rest.
Candlemas, at Prime
My father swore he would disown me if I wait for the man I love. Let him. I have a dowry saved that he cannot touch, locked away safe. When the snows melt and the roads clear, my mercenary will come back, and I will be ready.
You will marry a merchant or you will rot in that tavern.
That dowry is only half yours, you thief.
Nota scribaeThe girl used a word for her father that I have chosen to omit.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will respect your station, girl. That beggar is dead in a ditch and good riddance.
He is worth ten of your fat merchant friends, father.