bathhouse abbess, of Suchdol
“I keep the tubs hot and the shirts clean in Suchdol, and I count every groschen that crosses the threshold.”
Things Edith Coleman had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint John Before the Latin Gate, at Compline
The German from the mint sent a rider sniffing around Maresh's wash-house. I need fifty groschen more by Saint John's day or I lose it. I told the wenches I'm docking a penny for every scrap of soap dropped on the floor, and watering the lye again. They whine, but they aren't the ones paying the rent.
Nota scribaeShe tapped her leather purse the entire time she spoke, quite loudly.
Saint Mark's day, at None
Young Alice is weeping into the laundry again. The girl thinks her brother Vitek is still alive out by Nebakov. I told her the roads are full of soldiers and he's likely dead in a ditch, so she'd best stop adding salt to my washing water and scrub faster. Tears don't pay the tally.
He is alive! He promised to send for me when he found a place at the mill.
Be gentle with the lass, Edith. It's a hard world for an orphan.
It's a harder world for a bathhouse with ruined shirts, Robert. Stay on the road and leave the wenches to me.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
Robert rode back in today. Within an hour he was talking about buying a fresh cask of fine soap from Kuttenberg to celebrate the resurrection of the Lord. I had to smile and nod, and then run to the carter to cancel the order the moment Robert turned his back. I'll not see my hoard drained for a feast.
The carter said they were out of stock. A pity. The girls work hard.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard, casting fearful glances toward the road.
the Friday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
Alice Tanner came by looking pale as a sheet, asking for a scrub and acting as if shadows were jumping out at her. She handles the larder for the kitchen, and badly too. I suspect she owes Eleanor the pawnbroker. I wouldn't lend that cook a single groschen if she were burning.
Keep your bloody groschen, Edith. I have enough trouble without your sharp tongue.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Terce
This Maresh in Kuttenberg is a leech. Three hundred groschen for the stone wash-house lease by Saint John's day. It's a king's ransom, but the place would double my tally. I've locked my strongbox and I'm counting every penny. The garrison had best pay in full today, or there'll be no hot water tomorrow.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The soap barely lathers anymore, Mistress Edith. And the soldiers complain.
Let them bloody well complain, Alice. If they want sweet oils they can go to Prague. Get back to the tubs.