maidservant at the mill, of Rabstejnka
“I am a practical woman trying to keep the bailiff off my neck while the mill wheel stands idle.”
Things Cecily had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Father Joseph sent his deacon again. If Joan and I do not pay our parish dues before Sunday mass, he will read our names from the pulpit. The bailiff will throw us out. I need my tin pitcher back to pawn to the ale-wife, but Isabel still refuses to hand it over. Christ's wounds, God does not demand coin from a starved woman.
Nota scribaeDictated at the mill. She wiped sweat from her brow and sighed heavily throughout.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Still no sign of Master Havel. He rode for Prague before Lent to argue over road tolls and left us penniless. The farmers do not bring their grain, and we break our fast on Isabel's last salted cabbages. Joan weeps about the Hungarian soldiers on the roads, but tears never baked a loaf of bread.
I am delayed in the city. The toll dispute is fierce and the roads are foul.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at None
Isabel claims I betrayed her by gossiping to Alice the goodwife about the mill having an empty pantry. I never spoke a word to that proud woman. Isabel is just making up excuses to keep my good piece of tin. I would gladly pay a stranger to force her to hand it back, even if I had to say her foolish apology.
Say the words, Cecily. Say you lied to Alice about the mill, and you are sorry for your wicked tongue.
I will say whatever gets me my pitcher back so I do not starve.
Nota scribaeThe woman spoke with great bitterness, clutching a broom.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Prime
Swept the same dusty stones again today. My bones ache from dawn to dusk. I miss my dead husband more than I miss my wages, though I will never admit it aloud. A warm back to sleep against would make this draughty loft bearable.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Yesterday I lent Isabel my only valuable possession, a good tin pitcher for fetching ale for the feast. It was a foolish thing to do. She kept it. Now the master is gone, the larder is empty, and I have nothing to pawn.
It is a very nice pitcher, Cecily. I wish we had ale to put in it.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I am terrified, Cecily. If we are named in church, we are damned and homeless both.
You will get your tin when you admit you lied to Alice about our larder, and not a day before.