sack hauler at the mill, of Rabstejnka
“I try to keep my head down and do my work. I just want to live quietly and keep right with God.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Sunday is almost here and my shift is still torn. Lord have mercy, if anyone has a sewing needle to spare, I beg you to lend it to me. I cannot face the church looking like a vagrant when the deacon reads the names.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her hands the entire time she spoke, staring only at my boots.
the Tuesday after Ascension, at None
Father Joseph sent his deacon to the mill today. He says if Cecily and I do not pay our parish dues by Sunday mass, we will be named from the pulpit. I am terrified. We have not seen a single groschen to pay with.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Prime
The mill wheel is so quiet. There are Hungarian soldiers on the roads and no carts come. Isabel shared some salted cabbage with us at midday, but my stomach is hollow. I just pray Master Havel comes back from Prague soon.
Master Havel is a whoreson who left us to rot. Do not waste your prayers on him.
the morrow of St Gregory, at Sext
I snagged my best shift on a splintered hopper today hauling the last of the rye. It tore right down the seam. It is ruined, and the peddlers at Kuttenberg market will not give me credit for a needle to mend it.
If that miserable goodwife Alice had not ruined our flour, we might have something to barter with the peddlers.
Nota scribaeShe asked me if the Pope's book would record her as a beggar. I told her the Lord looks at the soul.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Terce
Master Havel rode for Prague to argue over the tolls. We swept the stones and cleared the chaff, but he left us no wages. I am sure he will send word soon. We just must keep our heads down and work.
He will not send word. We will be hauling dust for nothing.
Nota scribaeDictated in the grain store. The dust made me sneeze thrice.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Do not weep, Joan. We will fold the cloth over and tuck it under your apron. The priest will not see.