maidservant at the bakery, of Miskowitz
“I scrub floors, clean ovens, and break my back for a tight-fisted master. And for my trouble, I get robbed of what little I have.”
Things Sybil had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the week before Whitsun, at Compline
If anyone wants a spare key to the bakery's back door, it is yours. Master Walter still holds my linen locked in his house, claiming it pays for a sack of flour. Ten groschen he wants for it! I will gladly let someone inside if they fetch my cloth back.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms tight the whole time she spoke. I told her soliciting theft is a sin.
the feast of Saint Philip and Saint James, at Vespers
Took the heaviest grain sacks off the cart today. Old Edmund was limping worse than usual on his crushed foot, and if master Walter sees it, he will cast the poor man out to beg. At least the dog Terri got a crust of bread for watching me haul it.
Bless you for the help. My bones ache like the devil in this damp.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
It rained half the night and my straw pallet is soaked through. Vitek promised to mend my roof before the soldiers marched him south last year, and now master Walter uses it as an excuse to hire no one else. The king's wars are making me freeze in my own bed.
Soldiers make a mess of everything. My mother Martha writes from Prague that the roads are full of hungry men.
Nota scribaeShe sneezed thrice while dictating this.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
Master Walter and the tailor Roger Fisher are still acting like spoiled children over that fallen market awning. They will not even look at each other in the street. Now Roger just lurks by the fence waiting to speak with Margery. Give me old Peter's days, he would have settled it with a cup of ale.
It was his fault the awning fell. I am only speaking to his wife because she has some sense.
Mind your ovens and keep your nose out of my affairs.
the eve of Candlemas, at None
I scraped pots for a year to buy that fine bolt of linen to block the drafts in my shed. And what does master Walter do? Snatches it up and says it pays for winter firewood and a sack of spoiled flour. Stolen right out of my hands, the tight-fisted whoreson.
You used my wood to keep warm and ruined good flour. The cloth is fair payment, as I said.
That flour was rot before I touched it. You just wanted an excuse to rob me.
Nota scribaeThe woman was exceedingly bitter. I advised her against speaking ill of her master.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You know very well you wasted that flour, Sybil. Be thankful he did not turn you out.
It is my cloth now. And if I catch you handing out keys, I will have the bailiff take your hand.