bean seller and taproom maid, of Kuttenberg
“I work the market from first light and pour ale till my feet bleed. I work hardest in Kuttenberg.”
Things Clara Mannlicher had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I saw Else crawling in the dirt by the baker's stall weeping over some lost trinket. Pathetic. I told the girl she ought to scream at the town guards when they knock her baskets over, not bawl in the mud like a child. Grow a spine, kurva!
Nota scribaeDictated while she wiped down a table. She stabbed her finger at me thrice.
The third day of Easter week, at None
My bloody sister Grete is out there working the beans on my land again. Father left that strip to me on his deathbed, God rest him. If I had the groschen for the magistrate's fee, I would drag her by her hair to the bailiff. Thieving kurva.
Father left it to me, Clara. You were at the tavern pouring ale when he spoke his last.
Liar! You know his mind was clouded by the fever!
The Monday after St Gregory, at Compline
Thomas is in the taproom again, whining about the leaking roof in his room. He boasts he will not pay his three groschen rent to Peter. I told the boy to fix the bloody roof himself or shut his mouth. No copper on the wood, no ale.
Why should I fix Peter's roof when he is off in Prague living like a lord and squeezing us dry?
Because the rain falls on your head, you fool.
St Matthias's Day, at Terce
Joan is a bloody fool. She broke her back five years ago and still hauls jugs through the agony. The tavern master will throw her into the street the moment she drops a tray. I would never let a master treat me so cheap.
We do what we must to eat, Clara. Not all of us have the breath to shout all day.
Nota scribaeShe asked that the part about the tavern master be struck out, then demanded it be written anyway.
Candlemas, at Prime
Up before the bells to haul withered cabbages to the market stones. The miners linger and stare but keep their copper in their purses. I work harder than anyone in this town and what do I get? A raspy throat and aching feet. Buy or sod off!
Spare a penny or a bruised cabbage for a hungry man, Clara? Heaven rewards charity.
Heaven rewards hard work. Get a job, Prokop.
Nota scribaeShe shouted this over the din of the street. My ears are still ringing.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The guards are so big, Clara. My mother always said it was better to keep quiet and let them pass.
Your mother Marushka is dead, God rest her, and keeping quiet gets your apples stolen.