He went back to the counter and rummaged through a leather pouch, holding out the ring as he turned.
Tears rose in her eyes as she pinched the ring between her thumb and forefinger, turning it in the light. “It is his,” she murmured, and her face seemed to crumble. “He is dead, then.” She pressed the ring against her lips. “Atta, forgive me.”
Felix frowned. “He’s not dead, Adelgard. He’s looking for you.”
Her throat worked as she looked up at him and the following “Why?” was barely audible over the emotion fracturing across her face.
“Your atta is desperate to find you.”
A tear rolled over the edge of her eye, tracing her cheek.
“He gave Telemachus the ring in hopes he could use it to bring you home.”
“Telemachus is here?” Her eyes darted past him, as if Telemachus or her atta might materialize from the shadows. “He’s alive?”
“Yes. Searching for the captives, hoping to redeem them. Bring them home.”
“Home,” Adel repeated, and shook her head as if she could not believe such a thing still existed. “H—how do you know him, how—Ilona? Is he your friend? The liberator?”
“Yes, Telemachus and a host of monks are working to free and reunite your people. Are you going to be ill?” He gripped her arm and tugged her toward the operating table and the bowl beside it.
Adel sucked in a sharp breath and pressed her lips together, fighting for control.
“Hey,” Felix said gently, resisting the sudden urge to draw her close and steadying both hands on her shoulders instead. Her eyes jumped to his, but she did not shrug away from his touch. “You are not without friends, Adelgard. They are just not who you first supposed.”
She searched his eyes like a beggar might a trash heap, a wild and desperate hunt for hope among what had once been beautiful and was now decaying.
He took a breath. “I can get you out—”
The back door connecting the clinic to the infirmary opened and Sergius stepped inside, a basin of lancing needles and yellowed bandages in his hands. Felix dropped his hands from Adel’s shoulders and stepped back.
“These need to be cleaned,” Sergius said, and then noticed Adel. His face fell into a scowl. “That one again? Nothing but trouble. Jovan can’t get rid of the barbarians soon enough.”
“Sergius.”
“Good riddance, I say—”
“Sergius!”
“What does he mean, get rid of us?” Adel murmured.
Felix pinned the older medicus with a glare. “Nothing. He means nothing by it. Sergius is drunk, as always.”
“I am not—”
Felix grabbed the man’s shoulder and dragged him back through the infirmary door, slamming it shut behind them. “Unless you want the responsibility of inciting a rebellion, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”
“You have no right to lecture me.” Sergius shoved off Felix’s grip, his expression hardening into volcanic rock. He stepped back and brushed at his tunic as if Felix had dirtied it. “I have seniority.”
“You’ll have no job at all if the gladiators revolt—”
“Do not threaten me, boy.” Sergius’s face quivered and broke. “Those barbarians killed my son. My only son, at Pollentia, and I...” He stopped and swallowed, smoothing his expression and lifting his chin. “The sooner they are dead, the better.”
Felix clasped his hands behind his back. “I am sorry for your loss, Sergius. Truly.”
Sergius sniffed in a way that bespoke disbelief rather than grief. “Not sorry enough. That Visigoth harlot has bewitched you. Anyone can see it. She’ll be the death of you.”
“Perhaps,” Felix placated. “But until then we have jobs to do.” He turned back to the clinic, but when he entered, the door to the courtyard hung ajar and Adel was gone.
