townsman's daughter, of Kuttenberg
“I am waiting for word from Prague to leave this sooty town forever. My mother rules the house, but she will not rule me.”
Things Christina Torwart had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of St John before the Latin Gate, at Terce
Another messenger rode through the square and had nothing for me. I know Konrad will send word from Prague like he promised. My mother smiles her thin smile every time a rider passes by with empty hands, just to spite me. He has a position by now, I am sure of it.
Nota scribaeShe tapped her foot the entire time she spoke.
the Thursday after Easter, at Vespers
My father Karl died in his bed on Tuesday and the smell is already terrible. Father Sebastian demands twelve groschen for Sedletz Abbey before he will bury him. We only have six. Joerg says he will put him in the ground for four and a jug of ale, and I say we should just let him do it.
The abbey's ledger is the Lord's ledger, child. I cannot waive the fee without facing a heavy rebuke.
I have my shovel ready, lass. Four groschen and a good dark ale and he rests easy.
I will not have my husband tossed in a hole like a dead sheep. We will find the twelve groschen.
the Tuesday after St Gertrude, at Sext
The lye is ruining my hands. I scrub the pots and wash the floors because Anna's hand aches like fire in the cold ever since she broke it on the ice. Uncle John just sits in the corner picking splinters and hoarding his pennies while we do all the work.
You did not have to shove me aside to take the brush, but I thank you for it.
My pennies are my own business, girl. A woodcutter's back earns what it earns.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard while scrubbing a copper pot.
the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, at Prime
Madlen complains from dawn to dusk about the rotting base of her outbuilding and the rain coming in. She blames Gerta the nun who owns it. I would trade places with her today if I could. A leaking roof is a cheap price to pay for a room away from my mother's shouting.
the Wednesday after Candlemas, at None
Konrad left for Prague today to find better wages. We fought bitterly over it, but he swore on the Virgin he would send for me before the summer. I scrub my face clean of this Kuttenberg soot every night so I am ready when he calls. I will not grow old measuring salt in this bare house.
I forbade this match and I forbid it still. He will never return.
He will return with silver in his purse and take me away from you.
Nota scribaeShe asked that the part about fighting be struck out, then changed her mind.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
He ran from his debts, girl. You will starve waiting for a vagabond to buy you bread.
He is a journeyman, not a vagabond! You just want me miserable here with you.