"Things," he repeats blankly. "Like the police, I mean." He fails to suppress an expression of glee. Filia's little pink tail-bow swinging in time with her mace, the ricochet of a too-solid body's inertia propelling it up between two buildings, Amelia smothering him with an ice pack on a fishing rod. "Why don't you ask him the next time he comes into the pub, if you want to know?"