washerwoman at the stream, of Kuttenberg
“I am a townsman born, though my days are spent up to the elbows in lye and freezing water.”
Things Apollonia Koch had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Compline
The water is finally warming up, Praise be. The winter cold makes my joints stiff, and Menhard was counting the crusts again this morning. I only dropped that miner's shirt because I was tired, no matter what Matilda says. I can pull my weight well enough.
Nota scribaeThe woman kept her left hand tucked tightly into her apron the entire time she spoke.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
Rose was shouting again today about that padded gambeson. We all know Stephen is dead of the flux, God rest him, but the rest of us have our own griefs to carry. I just kept my head down at the boards. The lye is biting my skin raw.
It is easy for you to judge. You still have a roof, even if Menhard is a whoreson.
A roof where every bite of bread is begrudged. Keep your shouting away from my end of the water.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at None
Bought a stale loaf from the baker's boy for a penny. I dare not eat Menhard's bread tonight, he was in a black temper because the mint workers are restless. Sometimes I wish my father Andreas were still here. He was a carpenter, and a good man, and he would not let me live in fear.
Mind your tongue about your stepfather. He puts a roof over our heads, which is more than your father's bad luck did.
the first Friday of Lent, at Vespers
Eve Wright lost her carved bone comb in the mud today and wept over it. I pity her, living under a cold stepmother is a heavy cross. But I wish the others would stop bickering. Katchka demanding that Heinz walk to Prague draws the master's eye, and I cannot afford to be watched.
It was the only thing I had from before. You of all people should understand.
Katherine is in Prague! I know she is not dead, and I will find her.
Nota scribaeShe spoke quietly, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening.
Candlemas, at Terce
The water at the Italian Court was frozen thick this morning. My left hand aches so badly from the old cart-crush that I could barely wring out the wool. I pray to God Menhard does not notice my grip is gone. If he throws me out, I will be begging in the dirt.
I will take the heavy end of the twisting sheets tomorrow, Apollonia. Just stand on the right side.
Nota scribaeDictated in the freezing cold. She asked that the part about her hand be whispered.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You drop half of what you wash, Apollonia. If it weren't for Anna, the master would have your hide.
Leave her be, Matilda. We all get tired when the shift runs to Vespers.