housekeeper at the storehouse, of Suchdol
“I haul Master Maurice's grain and sweep his yard for a few crusts of bread. I keep my head down and my hands quick so I do not end up begging on the road.”
Things Alice had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
Joan is talking about trading that piece of iron she filed down for three jugs of ale from Anne. Christ almighty, Anne is a ruthless old bat, but if Maurice finds out what Joan made to fit his chest, he will have us both whipped out onto the high road.
Nota scribaeShe spoke so quickly I could barely dip my quill, clutching her ribs as if she were freezing.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
Saw Alice and Johanka up by the parish church today, walking like they are the Queen of Bohemia. Sakra, they only sweep the floor for Father Otto, and the fat coward has run off to Sedletz anyway over some plague rumour. They should try hauling fifty pounds of oats.
the feast of the Annunciation, at Prime
I cannot shake this rattling in my chest, but I will not let Maurice hear it. It is warmer sleeping on the grain sacks inside anyway. A passing tinker showed me a trick with a wire years ago, and Maurice's heavy locks are not half as clever as he thinks they are.
If I find a single sack torn or out of place, I will break your fingers and throw you in the dirt.
Nota scribaeShe was seized by a terrible coughing fit and made me swear not to tell the merchant she enters his storehouse at night.
the Wednesday after St Matthias, at None
The late snow was too heavy and the rotting timbers of my shed gave way in the night. I begged Maurice for just a few pennies for boards to mend it, but he told me I should be glad I am not sleeping in the mud with the refugees. Christ almighty.
He is a tight-fisted bastard. Come sit by the oven with me while he is out on the road, it is warmer.
Candlemas, at Terce
Up before the sun to drag water from the well and wash down the yard. The ice on the bucket is thick enough to break a tooth. I suppose my mother is lucky the fire took her, up in heaven she does not have to scrub frost off Maurice's cobblestones.
God rest her soul, but watch your tongue, girl. Complaining will not thaw the well.
Nota scribaeDictated while she was sweeping. I was forced to stand in the freezing wind to write this down.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My hand aches like the devil's own fire, Alice. Anne will not pour me a drop until I pay, and the pain must be numbed.