A tumble of wiry white curls peeks from beneath a patched velvet cap. Nimble moves like a pocketwatch wound too tightly; small rapid steps and precise gestures, forever rearranging a nearby object as if testing its weight. Their stall is a miniature chaos of glass, bone, brass, and ribbon that somehow forms an organized maze only Nimble understands. Unexpectedly, Nimble's left cheek is tattooed with a faded map of several streets in Blummidlop, inked in violet and silver, which contrasts with their otherwise immaculate fingernails and carefully mended waistcoat.