housekeeper at the tailor's, of Kuttenberg
“I run the house on Radnicni and count every grain of salt, for God knows an untidy larder is the devil's workshop. My poor Edmund left me to manage, and manage I do.”
Things Emma had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Terce
Twelve groschen gone from the jar since Epiphany. Twelve. I count the silver every Sunday night and the slate does not lie. The house is locked fast. Whoever is taking it sleeps under this roof, and they are sour milk in a clean jug. I tap my fingers raw thinking on it.
Nota scribaeShe showed me the slate. The tallies were indeed fierce.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Ellen was sewing a fine linen altar cloth this afternoon, but her stitching was crooked. I told her a guild master's son will not look twice at a girl whose hems wander like a drunkard. She went to her room weeping. I only want her to be respectable when I am in the ground.
My hand was just tired, mother. I will unpick the seam and start again tomorrow.
the Feast of the Annunciation, at None
The price of cabbage and flour climbs higher every week with these hungry soldiers on the roads. A housekeeper who cannot stretch a loaf is damp firewood. I rationed the meal today. We will eat thinner pottage until the master brings in more silver.
You always had a careful hand with the coin, my Emma. Do not fret so.
I hear your voice in my head, husband. The house is not the same without your steady ways.
St Gregory's day, at Sext
Anna is scrubbing the flagstones, but she jumps at every shadow lately. She walks about with her head low, trembling like a leaf in the wind. I should turn out her straw mattress to see what she hides. But then I remember how she cooled my brow during the ague last autumn.
I am only tired from hauling the water, mistress. The buckets are heavy.
Nota scribaeDictated while inspecting the floorstones. I saw no dust, but she found some.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
They say an old crippled miner named Prokop died last year. Anna told me so herself, and God rest his soul, the mines are a hard life. We prayed for him at mass. But I saw a man asking after her by the church with his very face. The girl is hiding something.
I am not dead yet, mistress, though the cold in this alms-house bites to the bone.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I swear I bolted the door tight last night, mistress. Perhaps a rat carried it off?
Rats do not spend silver at the market, girl.