"She is." Philo nods, quite happily. "As of a few months. It's been lovely, here. There are...many freedoms we weren't granted at home. Well, that she never was, and that I had to partake of quite illegally. When what you are is written on your face, and can't be hidden underneath a thick shirt, or boots or a hat, though..." He shakes his head. "Vignette was once freer, before the war. I often wonder how horrible it must have been, to be faced with the reality of what our way of life presented to her when she first arrived in the Burgue but...it's better here. A new world to discover together. New friends, new books..."
And, well, in his eyes, practical sewing is still impressive and still needed.
"I'll admit that my practical sewing is a bit more relegated to the realm of skin, but I DO manage to darn my own socks neatly enough from time to time. I've had to contract out for fixing more complex items. It's true about clothing. I fear I've yet to find a truly decent pair of boots here. Not even GOOD, but decent. There's just nothing like footwear made by a Puckish cobbler, I'm afraid."
He laughs at that innocent look, because, well. Philo's seen that face before. It rarely ever portends to be the truth.
"A worthy endeavor. One that I wish we had had the capacity to take on a version of in our own neighborhoods, but we are not quite there YET. I like your method, what I've heard of it."
And that's right. "Desmond, yes? The barkeep turned savior, turned barkeep again? Arno's shown me around the pub a few times. He seems kind. And television and films...I do confess they make my head hurt."