maidservant for the farmer, of Around Raborsch
“I scrub pots and sweep from first light until I drop on my pallet. The wages are late, but it keeps a roof over my head.”
Things Milena had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Christ Almighty, every time someone knocks at the gate I think it is the magistrate. Adleta's brother is mending, they say, which means she will be back soon. I put three more pennies in the chipped jar today. I just pray it is enough.
Nota scribaeThe maidservant wept while she spoke. I did not record the weeping.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Anna says the hound is mine because I named him Lemon. I say he sleeps on her side of the fire, so she owes half the fine. She is soft as fresh cheese when trouble comes, but I will not pay it all myself.
I never feed him! You are the one who gives him scraps from the pot.
the eve of St Benedict, at None
Christ Almighty, that foolish hound has ruined us. Lemon dug under the fence into old Adleta's yard and made a bloody mess of her prized laying hens. If John the farmer finds out, he will thrash me and throw me out. I must find some coin before she returns.
I heard the squawking all the way from my shop. You had best hide that beast.
A careless girl makes a careless dog. Adleta will skin you both.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rushed whisper. She kept looking over her shoulder.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
I went to the market for turnips, but there was hardly a thing to be had. The foreign soldiers on the roads take whatever they please, and the bread is twice what it cost last year. John Miller is a decent sort, though. He gave me a good price on some offal.
It is the least I can do. If only my landlord Mikesh had half a heart, we would all be better off.
Candlemas, at Prime
The lye has cracked my hands so badly they bleed into the wash-water. Sweeping the yard in the frost is misery, but it is better than starving. I wrap my good woollen shawl tight and try to stay out of the master's sight.
Rub some goose fat on them before you sleep, Milena. It helps against the cold.
Less complaining and more scrubbing. The pots won't wash themselves.
Nota scribaeShe rubbed her hands constantly as she spoke. The skin is indeed terrible.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You ought to tell the master, Milena. Before he finds out from the bailiff.
Hold your tongue! If he hears of it, we are both out on the road.