Edith

the Monday before Whitsun, at None

Ten years ago I would have packed my pot and walked to Tachov for a better place. But merchants say the woods are crawling with mercenaries from Kuttenberg, stealing what they please. A woman alone wouldn't last a day on the road. Sakra. So here I stay, waiting for the rain.

Nota scribaeShe looked warily at the sky the whole time she spoke.

the eve of St George, at Sext

I knocked on the counting room door and begged Master Denis to hire a roofer before the thatch caves in completely. He laughed from behind the wood. Said he has no silver to waste on a servant's comfort. Bloody hell. If it falls in before Martinmas, I'll sleep in his kitchen.

• 
  Denis

  You are paid your quarterly wage in good groschen, woman. Mend it with that, and mind the bread.

• 
  Edith

  My wage barely buys a pair of decent shoes, master, let alone a man's labor.

the third day of Easter week, at Prime

Baked the last of the winter flour today. My mother Drahomira taught me how to stretch a sack a full month, but even she couldn't bake bread from dust. The master sits in his room with his silver, while I try to draw blood from a stone in the larder.

Nota scribaeShe muttered 'sakra' three times while waiting for the ink to dry.

the second week of Lent, at Vespers

Spent my rest day hauling earth and straw up a ladder to patch the hole myself. Clumsy work, but what else is there? Master Denis won't part with a penny. I have a stiff back, mud under my nails, and a roof that still leaks.

• 
  Denis

  The grain stores are dry, and that is what matters to this household. Straw is free.

the Wednesday after Candlemas, at Terce

A heavy thaw in the night, and half the old thatch above my bed gave way entirely. Christ almighty. I'm catching the worst of the drips in my mother's iron pot. At least Drahomira isn't alive to see me sleeping in a cold puddle.

Nota scribaeDictated while wringing out a wet woolen blanket. The floor was damp.