'Just a leg' was underselling it quite fantastically, but even flustered as he was Ford was not so far removed from reason as to say anything to that effect. He had just about managed to keep himself from staring, but it was a hard-fought battle (this was another area in which Barnaby Wye was unexpectedly helpful; it was easier for Ford to pull his eyes away from the beautiful scantily-clad woman when he had an alternative, namely glowering at Barnaby in response to the comment that this was all his fault).

"I really can help," Ford protested. Holding the petticoat fabric in his hand had made him realize exactly how he might be useful in this situation, so now he had some actual ideas to back the offer up rather than just vague intentions. "Is the dress the worst of it? The gnome didn't bite you, or anything?"

If she was bleeding somewhere he didn't know that he'd be any help with that, but if all that was the matter was torn fabric and bruised pride he could at least mend the former. He had a better mending charm than any middle class man had a right to have, honestly — avoiding the tailor (and therefore the tailor bill) whenever possible had that effect. "I can get it stitched back together with a spell and you'd hardly tell it was torn at all. But, ah — you'd have to tell me which layer is which," he admitted, flushing again. He knew the layers of women's clothes from an academic perspective — he had sisters and he paid the bill for the modiste, so it wasn't as though what went on beneath a woman's overskirt was a complete mystery to him. On the other hand, his practical experience separating one layer from another was... nonexistent, and she was highly distracting.

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