maidservant at krenovy farm, of Slatejov
“I work the dairy here but my hands are meant for better than this freezing mud.”
Things Milena had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Saint Urban, at Prime
If anyone has ten groschen and a spine, go to the alehouse and take my copper jug back from Nicholas. He borrowed it last Saint Martin's day for water and now he drinks from it every night so folk think we are courting. I would rather marry a leper.
Nota scribaeShe spoke this very fast and touched her hair four times.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
The mud is so thick by the dairy I nearly lost my shoe. Richard is snapping at everyone again. He still mourns Peter bitterly, but God rest the man, it has been three winters. Some of us are trying to live our lives.
He was a better man than any of you.
the feast of Saint Joseph, at Prime
Frost again. I am wearing my heavy woolen cloak. I mended it with my own hands after I bought it off a pedlar, no matter what Nicholas whispers. A girl must stay warm at the churn.
A pedlar in the Nebakov woods, was it? We should talk about my share.
the first Friday of Lent, at None
Joan is a bitter old shrew. She claims I was talking about boys when the oak bough snapped in the Nebakov woods and killed Peter. I was working in total silence. She just has slow wits and needs a scapegoat.
You never shut your mouth that whole morning, you vain little fool.
Nota scribaeDictated in a sharp whisper behind the barn.
Candlemas, at Sext
My hands are entirely ruined from the damp and the cold. How is a proper Kuttenberg craftsman ever going to look twice at me if my fingers are as red as a butcher's block? This dairy work is a curse.
Rub them with a bit of tallow, it helps the cracking.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is a fine jug, Milena. We make a lovely pair.
Keep your filthy mouth shut.