the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Another week and still not a single groschen from Joseph. He blames the market, but I know the lockbox is bare. I cross my arms and ask for my coin, and he gives me nothing but cabbage stew. Christ almighty, I will have my pay or my reference.
Nota scribaeDictated while scrubbing pots with river sand. The girl spat on my boots.

You will get your coin when the harvest is in, woman. Hold your tongue.