the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The German masters sent down three times the usual shirts today. I rubbed my arm with a dock leaf poultice but the ache in my bones is deep. Mother worked through worse before the flux took her, so I will not stop.
Nota scribaeShe asked me to write quickly, as she was wringing out a heavy tunic the entire time.

You always look so sour at the tubs, Isolde. Rest a bit.
A resting maid goes hungry, Eve. You would know that if you did not steal from your friends.