maidservant at the rezidence, of Kuttenberg
“I run the kitchen in this madhouse and feed the idle mouths of the Polner house.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the second day of May, at Vespers
Grete is crying again about her dowry linen. Sweet Jesus, I told the girl it is buried deep under the winter blankets and I have no time to dig for it while I have twenty pots to scour. She can wait until the masters return.
Nota scribaeShe kept her arms firmly crossed while speaking.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Grete weeps over her father Tuma, thinking he is hiding in the Maleshov woods. I will not carry messages to dead men. If the soldiers didn't get him, the winter did. Best she prays for his soul and helps me chop these cabbages.
You have a stone for a heart, Joan.
Nota scribaeThe woman snapped the head off a carrot as she spoke.
the eve of St George, at Compline
Emma Apollonia will not let go of her feud with Vendula. Now we are all deprived of good beer because of their squawking. I have half a mind to march down to the ale-wife's cellar myself, but my feet ache from the stone flags.
She waters it down! I won't pay good groschen for pond water.
I just want a drink after work, Emma. Put your pride away.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Prime
Juliana prances around the house like she owns it, and that flighty Alice hides behind her skirts. I gave Alice the worst of the ash-sweeping this morning. Let us see how fine she looks with hearth soot all over her nose.
You forget your proper place, maidservant. The girl is not yours to torment.
Nota scribaeDictated from the kitchen hearth, amidst a great deal of smoke.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
The steward locked the main chest and took the key to Prague. Sweet Jesus! Thomas left his heavy wood-axe by my woodpile, so it belongs to the kitchen now. I won't split kindling with a rusted yard blade just for a hired hand's pride.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I only want to look at it, Joan. I spun that cloth myself!
And I said it is safe under the wool. Stop your whining.