Alice

the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers

Thirty groschen in the pot. I counted them thrice. Anthony wants forty-five for my mother's silver cross by the Feast of Saint John, or he melts it down. I sell every egg my six hens lay, but the miners have no coin to spare with the soldiers about. Sakra, I will not lose it.

• 
  Anthony

  The terms were set, girl. Forty-five groschen, or it goes to the silversmith. I run a business, not an almshouse.

• 
  Alice

  You will have your coin, you grasping old miser. Just wait.

Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron the entire time she spoke.

the second day of Easter week, at Prime

Went to the market for salt. The baker's wife slid the sack across the wood so she wouldn't have to touch my fingers. Let them treat me like the plague. My lye-scrubbed floors are cleaner than their own kitchens, I reckon.

the eve of Palm Sunday, at Sext

A pedlar came up the road from Prague today. I asked if he had seen a yard-worker named Humphrey. He had not. Five groschen I lent that whoreson last autumn when he wept about his debts, and he fled. Never trust a sob story. I rely on my own stubbornness now.

Nota scribaeDictated while she was hauling water from the stream.

the feast of Saint Gregory, at None

The hens are laying well, praise be. I sold four eggs to the diggers at the wall works. Every penny goes under the floorboard. If my mother Marushka had not taken the lung fever in the year ninety-nine, I would not be living out here with the hangman's tools.

Candlemas, at Terce

The priest says the Pope wants our days written down. I have naught to say but that the winter is hard and the roof draughty. I boil the iron pot for the master's meal and keep to myself. The Lord knows my burdens without me shouting them.

Nota scribaeShe refused to look me in the eye and spoke very quietly.