Of course she was from Paris. That seemed only fitting; a romantic sort of place for a woman like — But he was making assumptions, he realized, and he didn't even know why. Maybe if this was a stranger who had just walked into his shop he might have been justified to assume all sorts of things about her, but he knew Miss Chevalier, at least to an extent. He knew that she wasn't a debutante, at any rate. He knew she had a sound head on her shoulders and a kind heart. And maybe as it turned out she was also the most graceful woman he'd ever laid eyes on, but — well, why did he think that? She had her arm in a sling as proof positive that she wasn't always so graceful. He tried to picture her falling and found that he couldn't. It just didn't seem like the sort of thing she would do; wouldn't she just float from one end of the room to the other?

"No, no, I'd be happy to take a look," he assured her, moving to the counter and focusing on her wand and trying as best he could not to sneak any glances at the woman herself. He sucked in a little breath as he saw the crack, as though physically pained by it. "Well, that's not good at all, is it?" he said, almost more to the wand than to her. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, running his fingertips over the edge of the crack.

"Your core appears to be unharmed, Miss," he said, still focused on the wand. "So it's just a matter of filling in the wood, which is well within my skill set. For the best results, though, it ought to be as close to the original pine tree as possible... and since it's a foreign wand, I won't have any record of that here," he said, looking up at her with an apologetic shrug. "It's not an insurmountable obstacle, of course. I can write off to your Parisian fellow and see if they have a record — any wandmaker worth their weight ought to. When I get the reply back I can fill it in. It'll take some time," he continued sympathetically. "But your alternative, I think, would be sending it off to Paris, which wouldn't be any faster."