Inexplicable trembling takes my arms. It doesn’t help that I’ve had no chance to burn the nervous energy building up all evening. Or that there’s something unnatural about his tone, as though his larynx were made of metal.

“What’s this about?” I say. Because I’m pretty sure it isn’t passports.

“Sit,” Tibor says, waving a hand toward the chair. I don’t move.

“How do you like court?” Nikola says, as he takes the empty seat, which only serves to make me feel like I’m somehow being interrogated. Now I see that a small device is set in the round opening of the mask’s mouth, disguising his voice.

“It’s fine, I guess.” But the allure of the anonymity, the freedom I knew here, is already fading with its sense of safety. For the first time in days, I am keenly aware of the key around my neck, practically burning into my skin. Of every unanswered question I managed to set aside and then forget altogether in the masquerade that has been my existence in Zagreb.

“See how it has grown at the whisper of a single name,” Tibor says. “Audra, Audra, Audra!”

“And yet I do not believe you are aware of the implications of your return,” Nikola says.

“I guess not,” I say.

“It was very cruel of you to die,” Tibor says, picking a piece of lint off his pant leg. “I have a personal ritual when we lose one of our own. I hang a small plate etched with the name of the departed on the wall of my hovel. I did this for you as well. But then ten days ago Ivan informed me that my ritual was premature. So I took the plate down”—he mimes the action neatly—“and put it in a special drawer. For later. Little did any of us realize what you had accomplished in the act of your so-called death. At least at first.” He begins to applaud. “Bravo, Audra.”

This is the Prince of the Zagreb underground? The man is a lunatic.

“It wasn’t an act,” I say.

Tibor lays a finger against his masked cheek. “Ah, yes. The memory you shed like a scab. Which begs the question, why? What could be so precious that it must be so protected—even from us?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I say.

Right now I want two things: to find out why Nikola is here, and to get out of here as soon as possible. In fact, I wouldn’t mind accomplishing them in reverse order.

“Ivan was a great fan of yours,” Tibor says lightly. “His faith in you knew no end.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And then it got him killed.”

His head snaps toward me. In an instant, he has crossed the space between us and grabbed me by the throat.

“WHERE IS THE DIARY?” he shouts, full force, an inch from my face.