Dear Diary,
Life is horrible! I don't think I can ever show my face in public again! I had done work for a woman of the Scribe's caste, way too much blue if you asked me, and it was good work. She paid me fully and then went to her party, or whatever it was that she went to and she snagged the rising moon on her hem on a door nail. The embroidery began to pull out, leaving what she claimed was a trail of blue thread in her wake. She claims she did not notice it and that many laughed at her behind her back, and then she says that she tripped over the thread and broke her pinky finger and now it is all crooked!
But the worst is, she blames me for this incident. Oh, diary, what ever shall I do! The woman accosted me in the middle of the market as I was purchasing some red threads, and accused me of subpar workmanship! Was it my fault that she is a clumsy, graceless cow? Is it my fault her party was held in a place falling apart that has door nails sticking out?? Oh, but she made such a scene, and ranted and shrieked and pointed her broken finger at me, and it is all crooked now, and oh! I think I am ruined!
I cried all afternoon on Faboo's shoulder. He has been great in all of this, politely turning away my regulars and asking them to return tomorrow. Though he cited "family" issues, everyone in Ar must have heard of the incident by now! If it were not for Faboo, I would be more a wreck then I am. He locked up the shop and suggested I return to my apartment to "get a hold" as he put it. And then he came up bringing tea and listened to me cry the remainder of the day until he had to return to Maxwell's. Why can't more men be like Faboo? Understanding and gentle I mean. Maxwell blew off my complaint as if it were nothing! Nothing! I am ruined and he thinks it nothing and my only friend left is a kajirus!
My work is NOT shoddy, that bitch should have watched where she was going! I hate women like that, who think because of station or wealth they can get away with anything. But Diary, she is threatening to sue me unless I return her what she paid, plus pain and suffering. I could be hauled before a magistrate! I could end up in the stocks! Ruined, for the good of a door nail!
What a somber epitaph that would be. Here lies Lucretia's Pyre, Maxwell could say, dead for the good of a door nail.
The Lost Thimble