It takes him a few long moments to answer. He's minding his breathing, keeping it slow and steady as he looks over his in-progress ribbons like he's not doing his best to keep his feelings good and quashed down. Grief foremost, loneliness, but bitterness, too, and anger, with just a dash of guilt.

"She... she was accused of being Profane and..."

That sentence finishes itself really. Faro swallows roughly, fidgets with his needle and thread. "A year ago, in two weeks."