There's a pain between his fourth and fifth ribs, a stabbing sensation like someone has slipped a stiletto- or, he thinks wryly, a hairpin- between his bones to puncture his heart. But instead of the mercy of a quick death brought with painstaking accuracy, the wound has moved two inches to the right, seemingly in the middle of his lung.

It makes his mouth taste like copper, spitting blood into his hand as the boy before him reads the words on the letter.

"How do I reverse it?" Because if someone would know, it would be their generous hosts, would it not? And the boy before him is dressed strangely enough to be one.

His expression sours slightly as he fumbles with the buttons of his vest, bloody fingers re-buttoning the garment and trying to cover the stain of blood across his breast. No need causing a panic.

Not yet anyway.