When Leopold came to, he wasn’t exactly sure what had pulled him back to consciousness. It might have been the relative quiet of the room, or the sudden jolt of being put onto the bed, or the frantic conversation of his companions. The reason why ceased to matter shortly, though, as the seering agony in his stomach eclipsed every other sensation in his world. A groan escaped him in spite of all his efforts to stay silent.

He bit his lip hard and occupied himself with trying to remember if he had ever been in this much pain before. No, he decided, nothing had ever hurt this badly. He focused on just trying to breathe, slow, shallow breaths that jarred the wound as little as possible, and tried to make out what his friends were up to.

Rose was out of his line of sight, but his erstwhile rescuer seems to be engaged in drawing some sort of pentagram. Leopold could not see what possible benefit this might have, but objecting to anything this man, whose name he does not even know, might do is the farthest thing from his mind right then.

Using every ounce of concentration he could muster, he lifted his hands and started to fumble at the buttons on his shirt and waistcoat.