“I’m fine,” Handy answered, finally emerging from the blacksmith and trying not to be too stunned by the sudden temperature drop outside. He had squirreled away a copy of the measurements Henri took. It’d be useful for when he found a discrete tailor in the city. He looked down at the pair that was busy, of all things, drinking coffee from two disposable clay cups. Handy had always boggled trying to understand exactly where in the hell the people of this world imported their coffee from in such abundance to be relatively cheap, but he was in no mood for economics.