Something cold brushes my left ankle. I pause, startled to see a smaze zipping around it. It darts back and forth, frantic and restless, and I wonder if it’s the same one that wandered into my cell.

Lixue propels me forward with a shove, nudging me toward a door at the end of the hall. She scans a key card and the locks snap open. Lixue pops her head in, talking in a low voice as the huge Guard watches me.

“Leave us,” comes a familiar voice from inside.

Lixue swings the door wide, nudging me through it when I refuse to enter.

Doug sits on a crisp white sofa inside, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers threaded together, watching a TV. He doesn’t look up. The rest of the room is spacious and spare—clean angles, no frills, all white and glass and chrome. My eyes dart to every corner, but there’s no sign of the Staff of Time anywhere.

“Close the door.” Doug’s voice is gravelly and deep, as if he’s been here alone for a while.

“Are you sure, Chronos?” Lixue asks, her eyes flicking to me.

“The Spring won’t be a problem. Will you, Fleur?” Snowy black-and-white footage plays on the TV screen. Two Guards enter the frame. They lean against the wall outside Chill’s cell.

I stiffen as the door clicks shut behind me.

Doug rises and moves to the sideboard. He pours water from a crystal decanter into a short glass and holds it toward me. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, his forearms tensed, waiting for me to take it. I clench my fists, forcing myself to look away.

“Suit yourself.” He swirls the glass, turning to watch me as he takes a deep gulp. My swallow is painful and dry, loud in my own ears. His eye dips to the bruises on my neck as if he’s reading my thoughts. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since I was yanked from the villa. Doug sips the rest of his water luxuriously, every slow swallow taunting me.

He steps closer, his hair falling over the patch covering his right eye. The cold diamond of his left eye rakes down my sweat-stained coveralls, all the way to my filthy, bleeding feet. He gestures with his glass toward the sofa. I give him a wide berth, pausing midstride in front of it.

A glazed pot rests in the center of the glass coffee table. The waxy green leaves spilling over the edge of the pot are the only splash of color in the room.

My mind lunges for them, sliding into their moist, cool roots, clutching the houseplant like a found weapon as I ease down onto the sofa.

Doug watches me over the rim of his glass. “I’ve been staring at that pot for days, and I can’t budge a single leaf. Why?” he demands.