housekeeper at the slaughterhouse, of Kuttenberg
“I keep Master Wilhelm's house in order, scrubbing up the blood while fools track mud across my stones.”
Things Emma had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
That foolish boy Fritz walked off with my only good bone sewing needle after I kindly let him mend his sack. He fumbled it like an ox, and when I told him so, he put it in his pocket and left! I cannot even mend my own apron now.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms and sighed heavily before speaking.
the Thursday after Easter, at Vespers
I lock the heavy gates the moment the sun dips. There are too many soldiers and beggars on the roads since Lent. Master Wilhelm stays locked in the slaughterhouse, but it is me who has to ensure we aren't all murdered in our beds by Sigismund's mercenaries.
Aye, Emma. A butcher's yard is a prime target for hungry men with swords. Better safe than sorry.
the Tuesday of Holy Week, at None
Certain girls in this house are growing greedy. We found something in the mud weeks ago, and it was agreed we would share it. Now every time I ask for my half to make a decent summer shift, there is always some excuse about damp cellars or the master watching.
The cellar is truly too damp, Emma! And Wilhelm has been in a black temper all week.
Do not play the fool with me, Lene. I know you want to make a fine dress for yourself.
Nota scribaeShe refused to name the girl or the object, despite my asking.
the feast of St Gertrude, at Prime
The colliers came down from the woods today. I spend half the morning scrubbing lye and blood off the cobblestones, only for Hermann to track black soot everywhere. He is a miserable old drunk who has been useless since Else passed, and Thomas is too cheap to buy him ale.
Ash Wednesday, at first light
Before the sun even clears the hills, I am lugging heavy iron pots from the yard well to render the tallow. Wilhelm pays in gristle and pennies. People think keeping house is just sweeping, but they do not know the half of the foul work in this yard.
We butchers know the work, Emma. Tallow is the devil's own grease to boil before dawn.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the rendering vats. The smell of boiling fat was abominable.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You called me a clumsy lout! I just forgot I had it, I was not stealing.
Then bring it back to the yard, child, before I find someone to beat it out of you.