bartender at the platnerska, of Kuttenberg
“I serve ale and bread to the miners at the Platnerska tavern until my feet bleed.”
Things Christina Schmidt had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I spent the whole morning on my hands and knees under the tables, scanning the gaps in the wood. The tavern master snapped at me to stop staring at the floorboards and serve the guards. My hands are raw, but I must find that brass ring. I just must.
Nota scribaeDictated in a fearful rush. She wrung her hands the entire time.
the feast of Saint Mark, at Sext
Anna tried to lift the heavy ale casks from the cellar today, but her fingers were too stiff. I took the heaviest serving jugs for the midday rush so she would not drop them. My back aches terribly, but I cannot let anyone in the Platnerska see her struggle.
Bring me a fresh jug then, girl! And tell the master I will pay my tally when I get my wage from Hermann.
You owe half of Kuttenberg, Francis. You will see no ale from me without a groschen in your hand.
the Wednesday after Easter, at None
I do not know why George the Fly bothers coming to the tavern. He takes up a good table for hours, nursing one single cup of ale just to save his groschen for a crew share before Saint John's feast. It keeps paying men from sitting down.
A man has a right to drink his ale in peace. I paid my penny, leave me be.
Nota scribaeShe spoke so fast I could barely follow her words.
the Friday after Saint Gregory, at Prime
Those two apprentices from the Kupecka forge are always in my corner. Wilhelm is pale as a ghost and moves like an old man, while Fritz sits there looking like he has stolen the silver right out from under the mint. I reckon Fritz wronged a maidservant somewhere.
I have done nothing of the sort! Keep your nose out of the forge's business and fetch us some bread.
Candlemas, at Prime
My brass ring is gone. I bought it from a wandering peddler last year and it was the only pretty thing I had. I was sweeping the floorboards when I realised my finger was bare. Hans the Horse was mourning his mother Dorothy in the corner, but I could not even pity him.
My poor mother Dorothy left me nothing but a wooden button, but at least I have not lost it in the dirt.
Nota scribaeThe woman wept openly while dictating.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Christ almighty, Christina, let it go. You will lose your place here if the master catches you crawling about again.