housekeeper, of Kuttenberg
“I hold the iron keys to this grand stone house for Lord Nicholas von Marsh. It takes a steady head to manage the slate and keep the dust off his furniture.”
Things Matilda had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Compline
I count the household coin twice every night now. Fifteen groschen have vanished from the wooden box in the parlour. The heavy oak doors are locked, so it must be the drafts taking the money. I tap my keys and wait for the silence in this house to break.
Nota scribaeShe kept tapping a heavy ring of iron keys against her leg the entire time she spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at None
A tradesman threatened to bring the bailiff to seize belongings over an unpaid debt of fifteen groschen today. Debts are a wicked thing. I would rather die of a winter fever like the widow Vendula than have my things taken in the street.
Pray for those driven to desperation by the soldiers on the roads, child, and judge them not so harshly.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Sext
Cabbage is dearer again thanks to the Hungarian patrols. I took my slate to the market to show the baker I can read his numbers. Lord Nicholas trusts me entirely with the provisions, and I will not let these merchants cheat us.
It is exhausting work. The merchants treat us like fools just because we wear an apron, but we know the sum better than they do.
the second week of Lent, at Vespers
I am exhausted by hearing how wonderfully the late widow Vendula ran her home. I praise the flagstones when they are scrubbed hard, but I am the one with the iron keys now, not a dead woman.
Vendula knew how to pluck a chicken and run a kitchen, which is more than I can say for some girls.
Nota scribaeShe spoke with the measured tone of a merchant's wife, though her voice shook a little at the end.
Candlemas, at Prime
The levy took men to march with the king's captors. Grete's useless brother Andrew was swept up in it. I remember him only as a drunken lout begging for crusts at my kitchen door. He left nothing behind but a ruined pair of boots.
Good riddance to the lad, I say. Though I pity the poor souls who have to march beside him.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you knew how to read the slate as well as you boast, you would not be losing coin. I only scrub the stones.