The cold . . . that was Michael’s weapon—his affinity—and the staff had belonged to him. According to the old legends, the gods each gifted an element to Gaia. Chronos gave her the coldness of space. Ananke gave her the inevitability of the ocean and its tides. Chaos brought fire. And from those gifts, the earth was born. I can only guess that the cold magic in Michael’s staff is freezing me because it’s fighting Ananke’s power. The staff is even colder today—almost too painful to hold. I left it leaning on the desk in my office just so I wouldn’t have to carry it here with me.

A wilted plant taunts me from its pot on the end table. I stand over it, commanding it to move, but the sagging leaves don’t even stir. I smack the table.

Gaia had power over all four elements. She could give them, take them, or use them herself, but earth magic was her essence—her strongest affinity. It was earth magic that caused that quake, and if I’m right, the key to controlling Gaia’s power is in mastering that single element. I’m certain the magic in that orb will never submit to living inside me until I learn how to tame it.

As I pour the dregs of my water over the plant, something spatters against the table. Another dark drop plunks down, and I drag my sleeve across my nose, swearing when it comes away red. I set down my glass and head deeper into the suite in search of a bathroom.

I pause inside the wide double doors of the bedroom. The main living room is spare, all white walls and glass and crisp, clean lines—a place to work, to get things done.

But the bedroom feels like it belonged to someone else. The room is softly lit by incandescent lamps. Two faux windows give the illusion of being surrounded by a snow-capped forest, and a breeze from the ventilation duct overhead ruffles my hair. I swear I catch a hint of pine in the forced air. I turn from the windows toward a mahogany four-poster bed with curled, clawed feet.

I draw in a breath, surprised when I don’t catch Lyon’s scent on my tongue. But none of Lyon’s books are on the nightstands, no ordered piles of papers or interlocking coffee rings left behind, like the ones I’d always seen in his office back when I was a Winter. A layer of dust collects on my finger as I drag it over the nightstand. Not plaster dust from the quake, but the kind that comes from abandonment, as if the room hasn’t been serviced in months.