bathhouse maid, of Malesov
“I am worked half to death hauling buckets, and nobody here cares if I cry. My arms ache every bloody day and I just want to go home to my mother.”
Things Johanka had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the second Tuesday of May, at Vespers
My arms are like lead from hauling water all day, and Alice Marsh only ever yells at me to scrub harder. My hands are cracked red from the hot lye. If I just had my little wooden flute I could play a sweet tune and forget the aches, but some people are thieves.
Nota scribaeDictated with much sniffling. She wiped her nose on her sleeve twice.
the eve of Saint Philip and Saint James, at None
I am so afraid of Isabel. She looks at me in the loft like she wants to drown me in a tub. I have not said a word to anyone about what she keeps in her mattress straw, I swear it. I do not want to be beaten.
You had best keep that whining mouth shut, you stupid girl, or you will find out what drowning feels like.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Will no kind soul travelling the roads carry a word to my mother Martha? I am still alive, though the work is cruel. I cry for her every night in this draughty loft. I know she would weep to see my cracked hands.
Christ almighty, stop your blubbering. Your mother was probably glad to see the back of you so she had more porridge to eat.
Less crying, more sweeping. The floorboards will not clean themselves.
Nota scribaeThe maid wept freely while saying this, soaking the edge of the parchment.
the Thursday after Saint Gregory, at Terce
I dreamed again of the camp near Suchdol. I still see poor Stislav wasting away from the bloody flux, and that watchman Jacob brought back with an arrow in his gut. The smell of the blood and the shit was terrible. Why must men die so easily?
Poor Stislav. He was a good lad before this miserable bathhouse worked the life out of him.
He was weak in the chest and drank bad ditch water, Ellen. Stop your nonsense.
Candlemas, at Sext
Matilda is a thief and a liar! I kicked the lye bucket by accident, aye, but it was already leaking before I touched it! She took my beautiful wooden flute and claims it pays for the soap. It is not fair! Someone make her give it back!
Ten groschen that soap cost, you clumsy cow. You will get the flute back when pigs sing.
Nota scribaeThe girl's whining voice was loud enough to wake the dead. I wrote it down just to be rid of her.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It was fair payment for the expensive soap you ruined, you clumsy little fool. Scrub harder.
The bucket was already cracked and you know it! Give it back!