maidservant at Miskowitz keep, of Miskowitz
“I scrub floors and haul soot. I survived the levy, which is more than some bastards can say.”
Things Edith had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
Matilda Cross is avoiding my eye again in the kitchen. She knows exactly what she owes me from that bloody march three winters past. If she thinks I will just forget what we found in the brush, she is wrong. A fair split, that was the deal.
Nota scribaeThe cook was in the room when she said this, though the dictating woman spoke in a furious whisper.
the Thursday before Ascension, at Terce
Carried the water pails from the well today so Amice would not have to. That old granary horse ruined her hand six years ago, and if the master sees her drop a bucket, she will be out on the road begging. My arms are strong enough for both of us.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Alice is still sleeping under a piece of waxed canvas in that rotting outbuilding. She is a bloody fool to suffer it in silence. If I were her, I would have stolen dry thatch from the stables by now. Lettice will not spend a single groschen to fix the roof.
I do not want to hang for stealing thatch, Edith. The canvas keeps the worst of the rain off.
If you have time to complain about thatch, you have time to scour the kettles again.
Nota scribaeShe spat on the floor when naming the steward.
the feast of St Gregory, at None
Anna skipped her pottage again to save her pennies for her brother Ernest in Prague. I respect her stubbornness, but it is madness. You cannot scrub stone floors all day on an empty stomach. I ate her share and fed the gristle to Sturdy. The dog needs his strength.
Ernest needs the coin more than I need the food. The tanner works him to the bone.
More pottage for the rest of us, I say. Leave her be.
Nota scribaeThe dictating woman smelled strongly of wet dog.
Candlemas, at Compline
Woke before the birds to haul ashes from the great fireplaces. My knuckles are raw from the flagstones. It is a hard life, but a dry floor beats bleeding out in a ditch like those poor whoresons in the levy. I just wish bread was not so dear this winter.
We survived the mud, Edith. That is enough to be thankful for.
It is not enough, Matilda. Not nearly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your voice down, you stupid cow. Do you want the bailiff to hear you? Patience.
I have been patient for three bloody years, Matilda.