“There’s a code if you know where to look,” Piotrek says, slouched against an armchair on the floor. “The magazine is sold in every Croatian city by the homeless, who keep the profits. Do a good deed, find a safe place. Because we”—he lays a hand on his chest—“are the ultimate homeless.”

“Who puts out the magazine?”

“The Franciscans,” Piotrek says. “Our truest brothers for centuries, which is a scandal when you consider that Erzsebet Bathory—Elizabeth, as you say—was a Protestant. A Calvinist, even. And that the Habsburg king, a Catholic, became Holy Roman Emperor before her death. Tsk tsk.”

“Does the Church know the extent of the Franciscans’ involvement?”

“They are not so involved today, except as helpers.”

“But the monk, Brother Goran, who gave me the key . . .”

“This is the first I have ever heard of a Progeny monk. But who is to say what is happening with those Ivan knew before he died? Who could ever understand Ivan, or those he ran with?”

But I have heard the same said of my mother. And of me.

“The Scions are far more powerful today than the Church,” Piotrek says. “What can a few Franciscans do to them? Yes, a few may be murdered. But even the Scions fear for their souls. The Church is well funded by the rich Dispossessed,” he says, wiggling his brows.

“You won’t get to heaven like this, Pio,” Claudia says.

“I am Utod. My heaven is here,” he says, spreading his arms.

“This isn’t heaven,” Claudia says, sitting up. “And we can’t go from court to court forever. Even Ivan said as much.”

I glance down at my plate, no longer hungry. It’s the first time we’ve talked about Ivan in days. I’ve been all too willing to forget the questions he left behind—including my reason for dying.

Piotrek shrugs. “We can go to Istria for a while, if you like.”

“I don’t want to go to Istria. I want to live,” Claudia says, shrill.

“I’ve actually never felt move alive,” I say honestly.

“You call this living? Scurrying in the dark like rats?”

“I thought you loved court!” I say, feeling strangely betrayed.

“Look at me,” she says. Her hair is askew, her makeup smeared. In her Queen of Bloody Hearts getup, she looks vaguely like a crackhead. “I’m eighteen. I feel forty. Some days I wake up and wish I hadn’t.”

I glance at Piotrek, waiting for him to intervene. Leaning against the armchair, his back is bent like that of an old man.

“I say we leave, see the world!” Claudia says.

I glance between them. “You can’t be serious?” I say.

“Of course I’m serious,” Claudia snaps.

“Where shall we go?” Piotrek says with a slight smile.

“São Paulo,” Claudia says. “Madagascar. Egypt.”

“Mother Russia!” Piotrek says in a thick Russian accent.

“China,” Claudia says.