bartender at the dira, of Kuttenberg
“I pour the ale here at the dira. It keeps a roof over my head and keeps me off the street, which is all I ask.”
Things Alice Baker had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The pain in my spine is a wicked thing today. I prayed to St Mark to ease it, but I reckon he is busy with the silver barons. Joan carried the heaviest pitchers from the cellar, bless her. If the landlord saw me holding the rail like a crutch he would turn me out into the gutter before Compline.
Nota scribaeShe kept her left hand wrapped in dirty linen the whole time she spoke.
the Tuesday after St Stanislaus, at None
Albrecht fetched his own cup from the boards again so I would not have to walk it over. He is a quiet sort, saving his pennies for that ruined cottage he wants. I told him he should save a groschen for a stout door, with the soldiers swarming the roads these days.
A stout door is no good if the roof lets the rain in, Alice. But I thank you for the thought.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Thomas came in pale and frantic over the padded jack he pawned to Martin. That broker sits in his locked cellar hoarding tickets while honest men wring their hands. I told Thomas to drink water and save his coin, but he bought ale anyway.
Water will not get my jack back from Martin, nor will it help me sleep.
It was my jack he pawned, the bloody fool. Tell him to pay me back.
Nota scribaeDictated while wiping slops from the tables.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at Vespers
Joan is still spitting fire about Elizabeth the weaver and that ruined apron. Lord above, I wish she would let it drop. I nod and say aye, but a spilled jug is not worth a blood feud. We have enough grief in this town with bread prices climbing every week.
She ruined good cloth and laughed about it. I will have my apology if I have to drag her out of her master's courtyard.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Compline
Ralph drank himself blind again tonight, weeping into his ale about the boy Jan. The Cumans took Jan on the Maleshov road last autumn, and Ralph cannot let the guilt go. William just glares at him from the other side of the room. It breaks my heart to see good men hollowed out like this.
Jan was a better man than any of us. He did not have to die.
He was a fool who stayed when he should have run. Drink will not change it, Ralph.
Nota scribaeThe woman was trembling, though whether from the cold or her ailments I cannot say.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Let him try. I will crack a pitcher over his bald head if he says a word about your pace.