maidservant on havirska street, of Kuttenberg
“I haul water and scrub rock dust off my master's floor. When he comes home drunk, I make myself scarce and count my blessings.”
Things Alice had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Compline
Lazar came home with barely a groschen to his name, stinking of the alehouse again. He stamped around the kitchen shouting for his supper. I stood still over the hearth, praying to Christ almighty he would not step too heavily near my pallet and hear the loose board rattle.
Nota scribaeDictated the next morning at the well. She kept her voice very low.
the Tuesday before Ascension, at Terce
Eva and her neighbour are still shouting over that boundary stone shifted in the Easter thaw. They have the breath for it because they never had to scrub a floor for their bread. I tossed a scrap of gristle to William Swift's hound just to have something quiet to look at.
Vlcek thanks you for the meat, Alice. If only old Kubyenka had left a roof that didn't leak, the dog could sleep dry.
That stone was moved by a thief in the night, and I will not be quiet until it is put back!
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Vespers
Poor Sarah is weeping by the well again. The fat priest at Saint James says he will name her from the pulpit on Sunday if she does not pay her tithes. I pity her fear, I truly do, but I cannot give her my copper pennies. A girl must look to her own survival.
I only asked for a half-groat, Alice. God will judge us all.
And God knows I have to eat, Sarah. My master leaves me nothing.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her hands as she spoke, showing thick calluses on her palms.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
Joseph paces Zidovska street like a trapped ram. His mother Susanna sent his Constance away to Prague before Lent to save the house's name, and now he looks ready to bite anyone who speaks to him. It is exhausting to watch rich people invent their own miseries.
Candlemas, at Prime
Pitch dark and freezing. I hauled two buckets from the well before the bells at Saint James even rang. Lazar wants his tunics mended by None, but the rock dust dulls the needle and my hands are numb. At least the ash from the hearth keeps my fingers warm.
Come by the bakery when you finish, girl. I might have a burnt crust to spare.
Nota scribaeHer hands were indeed blue with the cold. This took until Terce to write down.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A man works in the dark all day, he earns his ale. Stop your muttering and fetch my boots.