maidservant at markolt residence, of Kuttenberg
“I am a maid in the Markolt house, rubbing stone floors until my hands are raw. It is a hard life, but God sees it.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the second Thursday of May, at Vespers
The wind is howling again and my knees ache so bad I can barely stand by the hearth. My Mikesh went in weather like this. Every time my joints throb, I know it is the Lord reminding me of the road to Sedletz. If Helena doesn't let me go soon, the roof will fall in on us all.
Nota scribaeShe wept a little when speaking of the dead man, and wiped her nose on her apron.
the Monday after St George, at Sext
Alice is complaining again. Three groschen a month she gets, and she acts like she's a burgher's daughter. I told her the roads are full of soldiers and refugees who would kill for a bowl of thin pottage, but she just swears like a carter. She didn't know the house when Annabel held the keys.
the third day of Easter week, at None
The guards are grumbling about the lack of meat in the pottage again. John says the Italian Court pays better, and I can see him looking at the gate. If he walks, the rest will go with him. I pray to all the saints that Tobias sends that strongbox from Prague, or we'll have nothing but tally sticks to eat.
Nota scribaeThe woman sighed heavily between every sentence.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Prime
I dreamed of Sedletz again last night. Three winters ago when the flux took my Mikesh, I swore to the Lord I'd walk there barefoot and give a silver penny if He spared me. He did, and I still haven't gone. The guilt of it sits on my chest like a millstone. I fear God is bringing the war down on us for my broken vow.
Candlemas, at Terce
We are out of salted pork. I had to tell Helena today. Three winters ago, under old Annabel, the cellars were full and the ledgers were right. Now we owe the baker and the ale-wife, and the girl tries to run the whole great house on hope. I miss the old days. My hands are raw from the lye water.
Annabel is gone, Joan. We must manage with what we have.
Nota scribaeDictated in the kitchen, smelling of lye and damp stone.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The roof is fine, Joan. You cannot leave when we have fifteen men to feed and no coin to buy them off with.
You'll outlive us all, old woman. Stop whining about your knees and help me lift this cursed bucket.