seller of coarse salt, of Kuttenberg
“I stand in the cold selling salt, though I worry sick over my aunt and the thieves here.”
Things Cecily White had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at None
The priest says the Holy Father in Rome wants all this written down for Judgment Day. Well, let the Lord read that the rats in our shed behind the bakeries are the size of piglets. I barely slept a wink on my pallet for fear they would bite my toes.
Nota scribaeShe spoke this so fast I had to ask her to repeat it thrice.
the eve of Saint George, at Vespers
Prices for bread rise every week with these soldiers on the roads. Poor Mabel wept today for that carter Havel who died of the flux. Emma hushed her right quick. Emma still holds Mabel's pewter jug, and God knows what dark business that is about. I ask no questions.
He was a good man, Cecily. The roads are not safe for anyone now.
Hold your tongue, Cecily. Havel was a drunk and he is in the earth. That is the end of it.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
If there is any justice, Juliana the ale-wife will rot. And Anna too! Thirty groschen she took for my padded jack and iron hat on Saint Martin's day, all to feed that useless boy Osbert. The Pentecost muster is coming! If my cousin stands bareheaded, I lose my silver.
Osbert was starving! You will get your kettle hat back before Pentecost, I swear it.
By Saint Vitus, you had better, or I will tell the captain who stole it.
I have the jack safe in my cellar. Bring me thirty groschen and the interest, and you may have it.
Nota scribaeDictated in a hurried rush, looking over her shoulder at the market inspector.
the feast of Saint Benedict, at Prime
My hands are raw to the bone this morning. The wind whips right through the square. I try to measure fair pinches for the bakers, truly I do, though a little spillage is only natural when a girl is shivering so. The rent for the shed must be paid.
Your spillage always seems to land back in your own sack, Cecily. Keep measuring.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
Saint Vitus preserve me, I am sure my poor Aunt Amice is dead in Prague. The Hungarian soldiers must have taken her. I only beg Barbara to ask Hermann at the mint to send a letter with the riders, but she is too proud to ask.
For the hundredth time, Cecily, the wagons only go to Kolin. I am not bothering my brother-in-law with this.
You know very well he speaks to the Prague riders! You just wish me to suffer.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her hands so fiercely while speaking I feared she would strip the skin.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you stopped hiding bread crusts in your bedding, they would not come near you.