bartender at the platnerska, of Kuttenberg
“I pour the ale, wipe the tables, and throw out the men who cannot hold their drink.”
Things Anna Schmidt had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
These miners drink like stray dogs when the copper comes in. George the Fly brought half the dirt of the shaft onto my floor today. I lugged three casks up from the cellar before None and my left hand is stiff as a frozen plank. Kurva, if the master sees me drop another cup, I am out in the street.
Nota scribaeShe kept her left hand buried in her apron pocket the whole time she spoke.
the feast of St Pancras, at None
Christina is weeping again over that cheap peddler's ring she lost in the floorboards. I told the silly girl to stop her bawling before the master hears, and I hauled the heavy dark ale up myself so she could keep scraping the dirt looking for it.
It was brass, Anna! And it meant a great deal to me. God bless you for taking the dark ale.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Hans the Horse sat in the corner all evening, looking as hollow as an empty barrel. I reckon he was thinking on his late mother Dorothy again. The boy has nothing but that wooden button she left him. I gave him a heel of bread and told him to stop moping, for the dead are with God and we are still thirsty.
You are a hard woman, Anna, but the bread was good.
Nota scribaeDictated while wiping down a scarred oak table.
the feast of St Gertrude, at Terce
Saw Wilhelm walking by the market today. He looks paler than flour and walks with a stiffness I know too well. Master Ludwig works those boys to the bone. Five years since that whoreson brewer's cart went over on Saint Michael's day, and I wager his back hurts as much as my hand when the frost settles.
Candlemas, at Sext
The cold this morning was biting enough to snap iron. My hand throbbed for an hour before I could even lace my bodice. I dropped a clay mug when the fingers seized up. Swept it away before the master came down. I cannot lose this place. There is nothing but the beggar's bowl if I cannot haul the casks.
Take some hot wine with cloves, Anna. It warms the joints.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted twice by miners demanding ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is honest dirt, Anna! Hermann keeps us digging in the wet rock all week.
Honest dirt still needs scrubbing, George.