merchant's housekeeper, of Troskowitz
“I keep Master Udo's storehouse from ruin and guard the cellar keys. He repays me with a rotting roof.”
Things Else had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The cough in my chest is rattling like a cart on cobbles today. I burned another of Udo's damaged beeswax candles just to dry the mould from the walls. If this roof is not patched by Saint John's Eve, I swear I am taking the Kuttenberg road.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her nose on her rough apron throughout and spoke quickly.
the feast of Saint Philip and Saint James, at Terce
Counted the household provisioning money this morning. Bread is dearer than last year all because of the king's brother and his Cumans. I must put aside every fraction of a penny I can. A local carpenter asks twenty groschen for new beams, and Udo will not pay.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
Master Udo has gone to Kuttenberg to haggle over shipments. He told me to sleep on the shop floor among the grain sacks while he is away. I refused. The rats in there are as bold as dogs in the dark. I need my own space.
I gave you a roof, Else. A roof is a roof. Stop complaining to the priest and guard the flour.
Nota scribaeDictated while she was dragging a heavy iron-bound broom across the threshold.
the morrow of Saint Gregory, at Prime
The spring thaw has come, and the ceiling finally gave way. Black mould is taking root in the daub. Udo blames the Hungarian soldiers on the roads and high tolls for his thin margins. I look at Bridget's old iron keys on my belt and fear dying exactly as she did.
May the Lord grant Bridget peace in the churchyard. She deserved better than that damp straw pallet, and so do I.
Candlemas, at None
Swept sand across the shop floor until my arms ached, then checked the massive sacks for weevils. A violent storm last autumn tore the shingles off my outbuilding, and the winter snow has been piling in. My raw hands are freezing, but nobody enters the cellar without my say.
Nota scribaeShe jingled a heavy set of keys at me to prove her authority over the storeroom.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are burning my beeswax? God's nails, girl, I will take it from your wages!
Take it from the nothing you pay me, master. The bailiff's men already complained of the smoke, but I will not die of the damp.