maidservant at leflirska gate, of Kuttenberg
“I scrub the floors, fetch the ale, and try to keep the master from shouting the roof down. It is honest work, if you do not mind calluses and a sore back.”
Things Cecily had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
The master asked where the tin pitcher has gone. I told him it was being scoured with sand, but I cannot lie forever. Claus still has it locked in his chest just to spite me over his silly pilgrim's badge. Holy Mother, if I lose my wages until Saint John's day, I will starve.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her apron into a tight knot the entire time she spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Bread is dearer again this week, and the market is full of soldiers taking up the road. I tried to haggle for a good goose, for I am shrewd with a penny, but the trader would not hear it. At least I did not spill any cabbages today.
The market is mad. Walter was shouting at me again about Magdalena. He needs a gag.
the Wednesday after Saint Gregory, at Vespers
Never trust a guard with a penny. I gave Claus a coin to fetch the master's dinner ale. He drank half the jug, laughed in my face, and locked the tin pitcher away in his chest! He is taking his foul temper out on me, and I dare not tell the master.
You owe me for the walk. Carrying ale is thirsty work.
Give it back! It is not my fault you lost your badge!
Nota scribaeDictated in the kitchen. She kept looking over her shoulder.
the eve of Ash Wednesday, at Sext
Walter the greengrocer is a miserable thief! My apron barely brushed his basket of spring onions, and they fell in the muck. It was the crowd's fault, not mine! Yet he snatched the master's copper jug right off the counter and demands ten groschen for the ruined stock. Ten groschen for onions!
Pay for the onions, clumsy girl, and you get the jug back. My poor Lettice would weep to see such waste.
What is this about a missing copper jug, Cecily?
Nota scribaeShe asked that the part about the apron be struck out, and then put back.
Candlemas, at dawn
Up before the sun to haul freezing water from the yard trough at Leflirska gate. The ashes were cold and my hands are raw. People say the Pope wants us to write down our days, but the Lord knows well enough that I spend mine scrubbing soot.
The priest wants his tithe and my purse is empty. We all have our troubles, girl.
Nota scribaeThe girl complained of the cold until I threatened to leave.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Stop whining, girl. When I find my badge, perhaps I will find the key to my chest.
You think a lost pitcher is bad? The priest read my name out at Mass for my debts.