“And Gregory Thurzo’s wife—find out where she might have gone. She systematically stole Elizabeth’s jewelry on her visits—maybe she took something else out with her. Her husband is the one who lobbied to keep Elizabeth alive. And find out where Elizabeth’s daughter Anna lived and was buried. She visited her mother regularly at Cachtice.”

“I’ll look,” Jester says. “But do you know how many family records—archives, anything—exist after Elizabeth? None. They were serious when they said it would be as though she never was.”

Even as I disconnect, I know a theoretical diary could have ended up anywhere. Smuggled to her cousin the prince in Transylvania to plead her innocence. Destroyed by Elizabeth’s sons-in-law or Pál’s tutor and guardian, who managed Pál’s share of the estate—at least until it was stripped from him. Burned in frustration by Elizabeth herself.

I have to remind myself that there was something—something—damaging that I hid as effectively as Elizabeth and her elusive diary.

I comb through the connections between Ivan, Nikola, Amerie. The princes of the courts they frequented, their birthplaces, religions (all Catholic), and the sites of their deaths. Ivan, I am convinced, was purposeful about the location of his death, if not his death itself. Amerie, purposeful about her death.

We’ve just crossed the border into Slovakia when I say I need caffeine.

“I can’t think anymore. I’m going crazy.”

It’s the second time I’ve made Rolan stop. The first time was at a tiny café on the outskirts of the city just so I could hold still long enough to regain some semblance of rational thought. But now the images are racing like frames of an old-fashioned film—too fast for my consciousness to grab hold of. And I know Rolan is struggling, his mind not wired for the Progeny disdain of sleep.

He stops at a gas station, goes inside for coffee. A police car pulls into the station, parks across the lot. I study the officer who emerges from it until he glances in my direction, though I never persuaded him to do so.

Does he recognize me, know I’m wanted for murder?

I’m more innocent than Rolan in this fact. But I’m the one who will be convicted if I fail.

Five days. So little time. And I don’t even know what to look for once we get to Slovakia—or where to go from there if I fail.

A line from my journal tugs at my thoughts.

So here we are. I’m at a crossroads and you’re where I was months ago . . . I couldn’t stay long enough in Bratislava. I’m running out of time so fast, the sun’s practically moving from west to east . . .

I’m pinching my brows together when Rolan gets back in the car.