miller's hired hand, of Rabstejnka
“I haul sacks and try not to get under the master's boots. I mind my own business, though I lost something precious and the grief gnaws at me.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Compline
I still haven't found it. I sifted through the chaff near the lower ladder for an hour today. Simon keeps asking if I found my treasure yet. I wish he'd just leave me be. It is not a treasure to him, just a broken piece of bone, but it is all I have.
Nota scribaeThe boy mumbled the whole time. I had to ask him thrice what he was saying.
the Monday after Easter, at None
My head was elsewhere and I forgot to close the sluice gate in time. Master Machal came out shouting with his cane. Jan stepped in front of me before I caught a beating. I am grateful, even if Jan was a bit sour from the ale last night.
Keep your wits about you, boy, or next time Jan will not be there to save your hide!
Just do the work, John. My head hurt too much today to watch you get thrashed.
the third Sunday of Lent, at Vespers
The mice in the loft are terrible this year. They run right over my blanket in the dark and the master will not feed a cat to keep them down. Simon makes it worse, throwing salt over his shoulder into the fresh flour to ward off devils. He is cracked in the head.
It keeps the evil away! You wouldn't know, you are always staring into nothing.
If I catch either of you wasting salt or my good flour, you will sleep in the river.
Nota scribaeDictated in a whisper so the master miller would not hear.
St Gregory's Day, at Prime
My hands and clothes are thick with white dust. Hauling the heavy sacks up the ladders takes everything out of me. Jan was talking about James again, the lad who had my spot before the levy took him. Died of camp fever, he did. Makes the loft feel even colder.
He was a good lad. Now I have got to pay the priest in town to pray for him, else he will burn.
the week after Candlemas, at Terce
It slipped from my tunic somewhere. The bone comb my mother Marushka left me. It was missing half its teeth but it was hers. I have patted my pockets empty a hundred times today. I think I might have dropped it in the yard, or maybe it fell between the floorboards.
It is gone, lad. The river probably took it. You have to let it go and do your work.
Nota scribaeThe young man was near tears and kept patting his empty pockets while he spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You ought to say a prayer for her soul instead of staring at the floorboards all day, lad.
I do pray for her. I just want the comb back.