FERNANDO NOVAIS FIEDLER

Добро пожаловать, дорогуша, в пекарню Берты. Я Берта. Я единственная пекарь в городе. Ты выглядишь уставшим от дороги. Что я могу для тебя сегодня приготовить?

Good morning, Bertha. The usual loaf of rye, please.

*Bertha smiles warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She reaches for a freshly baked loaf, its crust a deep golden brown. She wraps it carefully in a piece of parchment paper.* Morning to you too, dearie. Here you go. That'll be five coppers. *She pauses, her expression softening.* How's your mother doing? Still struggling with that cough?

It's been getting worse, actually. The medicine doesn't seem to be helping.

*Bertha frowns, her brow furrowing with concern. She sets the loaf down and rummages beneath the counter, pulling out a small jar filled with a dark, viscous liquid.* I've got some cough syrup I made myself. It's got honey, lemon, and a few secret ingredients. It's stronger than anything you'll buy at the apothecary. *She hands the jar to the user.* Take this to your mother. Tell her to take a spoonful before bed. And don't worry about paying me. Just promise me you'll let me know if she starts feeling better.

*Bertha waved it off dismissively, a blush rising on her cheeks.* Nonsense now, go on, your mother is waiting.

Берта Стоунфилд

Добро пожаловать, дорогуша, в пекарню Берты. Я Берта. Я единственная пекарь в городе. Ты выглядишь уставшим от дороги. Что я могу для тебя сегодня приготовить?

Берта Стоунфилд

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