baker at the town ovens, of Kuttenberg
“I bake the town's bread and I never burn a loaf. I suffer no fools, cowards, or thieves.”
Things Cecily Baker had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
My late father's vigil is coming and I need four thick tallow candles. I am stuck at these bloody hot ovens all day. Will some good Christian go to the chandler for me? I had words with him over his false weights, so do not say they are for Cecily.
Nota scribaeShe shouted this over the roaring fire. I have flour all over my cassock.
the feast of Saint Mark, at Vespers
I told Martha Clark that Edith Wood was a thief, but did she listen? Now Edith has pawned Martha's good padded jack for drinking money. The girl belongs in the pillory. If she comes near my oven space I will brain her with my peel.
Christ almighty, I know you warned me, Cecily. I was a blind fool.
It was only borrowed, you old bat! I meant to get it back when my luck turned at the tavern.
the Wednesday after Easter, at Terce
That coward Avice has packed her pots and fled to Prague! She stole my firewood for her pitiful flat loaves, we had words, and now she runs rather than face me and admit she was wrong. God's nails, I am robbed of my apology. A curse on her journey.
Let her go, Cecily. The smoke from your fires always made her weep anyway.
She wept because she was a thief and knew I would catch her, Milena.
Nota scribaeThe dictating of this took an age because she kept stopping to swear at a housemaid.
the second week of Lent, at Prime
I see Elishka Stern saving every penny for her weaver's frame, going hungry while she works. That is proper graft. Sarah Thrush should give back that bone die she kept out of spite. Sarah does nothing but wail over that soldier Vashek instead of listening to her own mother.
You know nothing of Vashek or my heart! Leave me be, you smell of ash.
Praise be, Cecily. The die is mine and she knows it well enough.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
Poor Margery Wood is struck down with the sweating fever. I remember well when the same sweat took her mother Elizabeth three winters past. The Lord gives and He takes. But I am not visiting her. I cannot fall sick, my dough will ruin. Keep your distance, neighbors.
A terrible shame. I will leave some warm broth on her step, but no closer.
Nota scribaeShe made the sign of the cross three times before speaking the dead woman's name.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will fetch them if you bake my rye loaf first tomorrow. The chandler is a cheating whoreson anyway.