housekeeper at the bakery, of Miskowitz
“I balance the ledgers and stretch the rye so we do not starve. It is a thankless task keeping a household from ruin while soldiers march up the prices.”
Things Margery had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
Roger Fisher is shut up in his house again. He pesters me to find a messenger to Prague so his mother Martha will know he is clear of the plague. I need some passing soul to look at his door from afar and tell me if he still draws breath, for Walter will not let me near the man.
Nota scribaeShe looked over her shoulder thrice while speaking this.
the second Tuesday in May, at Prime
Sybil weeps that her shed roof leaks, but Walter took her new linen to pay for the winter flour she ate. If Vitek had not been marched off with the army, he could have mended the timber. Now I must listen to her sniffling and Edmund dragging his bad leg, and still the baking must be done.
The rain comes right through the thatch. I only ate what was given me.
the feast of Saint George, at None
The price of firewood climbs every week. I sit in flour dust counting out our few groschen and wonder how we are to keep the ovens hot. Walter speaks of his pride and measures himself against his late father Peter, but pride does not buy rye from the mill.
Old Peter was a fair master, God rest him. We never lacked for wood in his day.
Nota scribaeThe woman sighed heavily and crossed her arms as she spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
Market day again and Walter and the tailor stand ten paces apart in the mud like two sullen boys. All because a gale took the awning at Michaelmas. Terri is a good dog and only went after a rat, but between them they have made my life an absolute misery.
That beast lunged and pulled the main pole down. My ropes were tied true.
Hold your tongue, tailor. You could not tie a knot to save your neck.
the second week of Lent, at Compline
The priest says we must put our days in this book for the Lord to read. I pray the Lord can read a baker's ledger, for that is all my days are. The soldiers on the roads take the grain, the prices go up, and my husband watches every penny like a hawk.
Nota scribaeDictated in the bakery back room. The heat of the ovens was unbearable.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Let the tailor starve. It was his bad knots that brought down the canvas, not my dog.
Christ almighty, Walter, the man has no wife to cook for him and you bicker over a piece of cloth.