He'd picked up the habit of scavenging from the worlds they visited. He kept his pickpocketing skills sharp; some of the spires in the cities they had been to rivalled even that of Kredik Shaw, and the people were quicker on their feet, yet they didn't smile even without being Soothed. Most frequently, he found rectangular shapes, lighter than coins, made of an unknown material. The sky was nearly always blue. It was a better reward than gold and jewels, but he wouldn't have felt quite like himself if he wasn't busy planning the next heist, even if it was rarely carried out.

When Liminal Space changes, he clambers on the gates, and finds his way into one of the spaces in top of the empty cars (the one that smells most strongly of flowers). There, he sits, cross-legged, hanging up the mistcloak on a nearby hook, and plays with a collection of stainless steel spoons. One is bent out of shape, and he Pushes and Pulls it around idly. The waiting room, as he'd heard others politely call it, was usually a place of minimal comfort, but the Trumps have decided to be kind to their pets - this pet, perhaps - and given him metal.

A few minutes later he starts playing with the other objects on the tables, sending them hurtling around the room, dangerously quick, laughing all the while. Good luck trying to get into this car.