housekeeper at the tavern, of Miskowitz
“I sweep the hearth and scrub the bowls. You see a lot from the corner when people forget you are there.”
Things Juliana had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday after St Philip and St James, at Vespers
Ellen thinks she can just keep checking that loose stone out back and I won't notice. I watched her today while I was hauling water. She says that quartermaster Jarda from Prague is hunting looters and we must wait. It is a lie. She just wants to cheat me out of what is mine.
Nota scribaeShe kept her eyes on the floor the entire time she spoke, muttering.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Humphrey chopped the firewood this morning and then drank away his wages again. He sold a padded jack that belonged to Hedvika just to pay his ale slate. I pity him, grieving for Maurice like that, but he is digging his own grave with a tankard.
Maurice was a good man. Better than anyone left in this miserable place.
I want my jacket back, Humphrey. Or I'll take it out of your hide.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
The carters tracked mud all over the taproom last night. I spent the morning sweeping it up and scrubbing the boards. Andreas just hauls his casks and ignores the mess. He hoards every penny he gets. Probably saving up for that widow Katherine's orchard he never shuts up about.
Mind your own business, girl. And mind your broom.
Nota scribaeDictated while leaning heavily on a broom.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Sext
They talk about the soldiers on the roads, making bread dearer. I saw enough of soldiers last summer on the campaign with the baggage train. The noise, the filth, the Hungarian outriders. I risked my neck outside that tent on St Lawrence's day while others got rich inside. Never again.
And I expect what I am owed for my trouble.
Stop complaining and fetch more logs for the hearth.
the morning after Candlemas, at Terce
It is freezing in the loft. I crept down the ladder before Ellen and Hedvika even woke up, just to kindle the hearth fire. Nobody thanks me for it. They just come down later, warm their hands, and tell me I missed a spot of ash on the bowls.
Nota scribaeShe asked if the Lord in Heaven would strike her roommates with a plague. I did not write that part down.
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 foolish girl. Do you want us all hanged?
Lower your voice, Juliana. Just scrub the bowls and be patient.