maidservant at Semin farm, of Semin
“I keep my head down and scrub pots until my knuckles bleed. It keeps a crust in my belly.”
Things Agatha had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Compline
Master Thomas has been sitting by the hearth all week, staring at his ledger and counting his groschen late into the night. The clinking sound keeps me awake. I pray to the Lord he finds no mistakes in his tally.
Nota scribaeShe fiddled with the hem of her sleeve the entire time she spoke.
the Monday after Easter, at Sext
The cows have gone dry and Mistress Vendula is in a right state. She blames a bad wind, or me leaving the bolt undrawn. Now she wants a jug of milk carried to the woods in the dark to quiet the fairies. Christ preserve us.
Do not speak of the woods here! You will bring the evil eye on the pigs next, you foolish girl.
Easter Sunday, at Vespers
Jacob has packed his bundle and gone to Prague to look for better work. He was a decent hand. Mistress says he slinked off like a thief, but I reckon he just wanted a fair wage. The yard feels empty without him.
He slinked off because he has a guilty conscience, mark my words. Good riddance to the whoreson.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rush while carrying two buckets of water.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Prime
If I ever see my brother Hynek again, I will clout him with a skillet. He marches off with the Kuttenberg levy to play at war, and leaves me with an angry ale-wife shouting about a twelve-groschen debt. Where is a maid supposed to find twelve groschen?
Keep your hair on, sister. The King will pay us soon enough and I'll buy you a bright new ribbon.
I do not want a ribbon, you arse, I want you to pay your own bloody debts!
the morrow of Candlemas, at Lauds
The frost is so thick the well bucket froze to the stones this morning. My knuckles are raw from scrubbing pots with sand in the freezing dark. I told Mistress I cannot feel my fingers, and she said dirt does not care if I am cold.
Less talking to the priest, more scrubbing, Agatha. The yard will not muck itself.
Nota scribaeShe showed me her hands. They were indeed red and raw.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My tally is my own business, girl. Just see the barn is properly bolted tonight.