maidservant at the farm, of Zhelejov
“I keep four grown men fed and their clothes scrubbed, my duck. It is hard work making a good stew from nothing, but I manage.”
Things Adleta had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Old Prokop is demanding silver because my boy Cernik got into his yard and took two hens. He threatens to fetch the bailiff. If he mended his wire, a hungry dog would not wander in. The men have no pennies to give me, and I am terrified they will take my dog away.
Nota scribaeShe wept into her apron and wiped her raw hands on it. I told her the bailiff has worse matters.
the Tuesday before Pentecost, at Sext
Hynek brought a fine hare to the pot today. It makes a grand change from roots, my ducks. I gave him the best cut, for he earned it, though Jan grumbled over his bowl.
the third day of Easter week, at None
There is no peace in this yard. Master Francis docks our wages a few pennies at a time because of that slate, so now everyone steals each other's tools just to hold onto something. Andrew lost his knife and wept.
I did not steal the knife. He dropped it in the muck by the stable.
Nota scribaeShe sighed heavily between every sentence.
the second Friday of Lent, at Terce
The water at the brook is freezing my hands raw, my ducks. Beating the dirt out of four men's heavy wool tunics is the Lord's own penance. My boy Cernik sits on the bank to keep me company, praise be.
Thank you for mending the tear in my sleeve, Adleta.
Candlemas, at Prime
Constance packed her pots and went to Kuttenberg today. I miss her already, for she taught me how to brew a proper poultice. But Christ almighty, she sold our ale debt to master Francis before she left, and now we are ruined.
May she choke on her Kuttenberg silver. Twenty groschen we owe, and Francis will take it all from our spring pay.
I had to look to my own keep, Jan. The master had the coin to buy the slate.
Nota scribaeDictated while she was slipping food to a hound from her own bowl.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Do not fret, Adleta. I will look at the man's wire tomorrow and see if it was rotten to begin with.
Prokop is a miserable old sod anyway. Cernik did not know better.