maidservant at her brother's farm, of Miskowitz
“I earn my keep hauling water and scrubbing stone floors at Miskovice. Honest work is all a woman needs to keep a roof over her head, God willing.”
Things Isabel had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The heavy oak buckets felt like lead today at the well. Jitka fluttered about like a frightened bird, offering to carry them for me. I told her sharply to mind her own chores. A bit of stiffness in the morning is nothing, and I will not have my brother think I cannot earn my keep. God willing, I will outwork them all.
Nota scribaeDictated while leaning heavily against the churchyard wall, though she claimed she was merely resting.
the Tuesday after St George, at None
Beatrice is shouting again because the neighbour's geese got into the early cabbages. I took my mending to the far side of the yard to stay out of the storm. Let her scream at the sky. A quiet mouth is a blessing when the temper flares in this house.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
I went to the churchyard to sit by my father's grave. Paul built this place and he always knew the value of hard work. I miss how things were before the flux took him three winters ago. Up in heaven there are no heavy backing carts to pin a girl to a wall, and no bonesetters charging two groschen for useless grease.
He was a stern man but a good farmer. I pray every day I can keep his farm together despite the king's taxes.
the eve of St Joseph, at Compline
The roads are thick with soldiers and refugees, and bread costs more every week. I saw Joseph sitting by the hearth again tonight, counting the groschen in his iron lockbox. He looks so tired. Jitka was staring at the box from her pallet, jumpy as ever. I said a prayer for her nerves. We all have our burdens.
I was not staring at the box. I was only looking at the fire. I swear it.
Nota scribaeShe asked that her brother's wealth not be described too plainly, lest the Cumans read it.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
The trough was frozen solid this morning. I had to break the crust of ice with the butt of an axe before the chickens could drink. Every strike shot a dull ache straight up my spine, but the yard must be kept. Honest work is what keeps us fed, God willing, no matter how cold the wind bites.
You do good work, sister. Father would be glad the yard is kept right.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I only meant to help, Isabel. You looked so pale pulling the rope.
Worry about yourself, girl. Scrub the pots and leave the water to me.