His footsteps tread slow, rhythmic and foreboding. Already, I hate Thoron's news.

I blow the window to ice, wishing to block the blue sky taunting me. No matter how many storm clouds I summon, the air warms before the snow falls. The city instead blossoms this December. Emerald grass pokes from the ground, playing the sky's same cruel game. No one's shivering. There's not a hope of anyone freezing to death. Something is definitely off this year; perhaps it's just my mood.

"So?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"No deliveries today." Thoron's voice wavers with fear.

"It's December third! Our advent is three days in and nothing! What the hell? This is so not like him."

Thoron helps himself to the candy dish, choosing a golden wrapped toffee. "To be fair, the melted snow flooded the streets. There's no way in or out of the city."

"That's never hindered North before. He has his ways." Thoughts of the time I froze the village of Eastwick for hanging their holiday decorations before the first of December flash through my mind. Even with treacherous ice, North's gifts are never late.

I turn to my trusted advisor. Thoron has been with me for centuries, an angel to guide me through each passing year. My sisters, Spring, Autumn, and Summer each have their advisors, but Thoron is the cleverest. He knows how to keep a secret, never once revealing the destruction I cast while my sisters lay sleeping. As I glance his way, Thoron's sharp green gaze slides to the floor. "What is it?" I step toward him, stopping inches in front of him. His foggy, cool breath smells of caramel. "What aren't you telling me?"

"It's your sister Summer." He swallows the toffee whole while meeting my gaze.

"Tell me." I place my palm flat on his chest, beneath the safety of his fur coat. At once his skin flecks with goosebumps. The color drains from his neck, as blood rushes to keep his heart from freezing.

Survival has always fascinated me; the human body a true wonder, fighting to live even when it would be easier just to succumb. But I can't destroy Thoron's body or I'll have to spend needless hours searching for a suitable new host for his soul. Already, it took weeks to find one this pretty.

"Summer is with North." He gasps, sucking the air in full gulps when I remove my hand.

His words refuse to register in my mind; they're too crazy to comprehend. But my heart understands at once. The fierce fire of jealousy warms my flesh, which spins my stomach with a rolling sickening ache. Thoron, despite nearly dying a few seconds ago, steadies me from falling. "You're lying." I push him away. "North hates Summer."

"Have you not felt the warm winds?" He brushes the frost from his hand where he touched me. "Your sister is awake."

I clutch my chest killing two snow white butterflies pinned to my dress. "Oh, that's just great. I spent all morning lacing them to the bodice."

Thoron unlatches the cage beside. Guiding a butterfly to his finger, he then cups the insect, and offers it to me. "Let me fix it for you."

"You can't fix this! Is this why my advent gifts haven't arrived? Because he's with her!" With a swift breath, I blow open the doors and with a wave of my hand, they crackle with ice. I shouldn't use magic in the tower, but with rage on my mind, I couldn't care less if the building crumbles to the foundation, crushing my sisters' caskets.

"Winter, don't go down there." Thoron calls after me, but the elevator doors slide shut before he can reach me.

As the elevator chimes with each passing floor, I think of the gifts of Christmas past. Every year North and I start the holiday season with our days of advent. Last December, dazzling gems growing in rarity and size arrived at the tower. And on the twenty-fifth, when the packages were all opened, he gave me his heart. We were born for each other, as Spring is to West, Autumn to East and my stupid sister Summer to South. North and I are the desolate, the ice warriors; we don't bend to the season—we rule it. Why then did he promise his love, only to take it away?

My head grows dizzy with thoughts of Summer lounging in his penthouse. She would surely turn his glorious skating rink into a pond. Her very presence... No, I won't let my mind fill with impossible scenarios. North with Summer? It can't be true. But as the elevator comes to a stop, my heart already knows.

I slide my finger up my cell phone's screen, illuminating the flashlight as I race past the candelabras. I pass Autumn, her hands by her sides, her dark skin coated in coppery dust, matching her curly hair. I always admired her beauty. If I had been born with Spring's dull complexion and mousy brown mane, I might envy Autumn, but I am the most beautiful of them all. So, when I find Summer's glass casket empty, I know North has lost his mind. How else can I explain this madness?

She's poisoned him with one of her flowers. She's charmed him with her bees. I've always hated her honey. Butterfly wings struggle against my flesh, sending my already stricken heart fluttering. I slap them all until each one falls dead. Somehow this is more satisfying than keeping them alive. I stare at Summer's pillow, her gold dust still coating the sheets. Yes, death feels good. I grab her pillow, careful not to lose too much of her essence. I know the perfect advent gift for North.

Thoron stands at the elevator, concern cutting his gaze.

"Bring my paints." I step inside.

His eyes widen. I'm sure his frosty skin just paled, so I know without question my gift is perfect.

"Winter, I think you should call North. Speak to your sister."

"Meet me in the gallery." I punch the button, closing the doors.

The gallery sits six floors above the lobby. It's hard passing without stopping. A part of me wants to take the limo to North's apartment, but if I'm patient, North will come to me.

Generosity sweeps over me as I push back the doors to the gallery. My gaze drifts across the paintings lining the walls, filling me with the holiday spirit.

Setting Summer's pillow on the desk, I head to the cabinet of brushes. From my locket, I take out the tiny key and open the case. I admire the engraved bone handle brushes with fine human hair bristles. As I pick up mine, I'm careful not to disturb my sister's brushes. I've painted more than I should this season.

Portraits fill my side of the gallery from floor to ceiling; the rest of my collection stacked a few feet deep against the wall. Spring still paints just one a year; Autumn is a little more adventurous, as she got swept away crafting three promising pieces titled, Drought. And then there's Summer's wall, where the faces of decrepit humans with one foot in the grave stare back. Nothing near as stunning as my portraits of beautiful, robust boys fresh from their mother's doorsteps. Summer's never had the stomach for death.

Thoron clears his throat. "Please. Think of the consequences." His tone holds a warning.

I feel as if I'm floating when I take the paints from him. "You really can be a downer." I set the box beside the pillow. "I want to be alone."

"You have always listened to me. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"There was that time you stopped me from freezing the jet. If you had let me take it down, the world would be a better place."

"Killing two hundred people to get to one man wasn't a good plan."

I shrug. "Doesn't matter, I found another way to him." I glance at the stacked paintings, where three canvases deep in, Thoron would find the man's howling painted face.

"Call North." He hands me his cell phone. "At least find out what is going on before you do something you're going to regret."

I take the phone to appease him, so he'll leave.

"Winter, please."

"Shoo now, before I paint you." I wink, even though I'm quite serious.

His lip twitches as if he's about to say more, but when I wave my paintbrush, he shakes his head and departs.

With a heart full of anticipation, I open the paint box. Inside, six little jars filled with a clear fluid await transformation. First, though, to capture Summer perfectly, I need something of hers. I brush her dust from her pillow. The gold shimmers on my skin, so bright against my silvery glow. She's the sun to the moon, yet still, the world is better off without Summer. Besides, vegetation can grow indoors nowadays; the humans won't starve.

Before my conscience persuades me to change my mind, I sprinkle Summer's dust into each paint pot. The room fills with the scents of honeysuckle and green grass laced with a sugared breeze. I gag as I carry the paint box and brushes to my easel where a fresh canvas awaits. I planned to paint the barista at the cafe. He deserved to be captured in a portrait after spelling my name W-y-n-t-e-r and then forgot the extra pump of vanilla, but today, I'm into a little DIY holiday gift crafting.

As I aim my brush, I begin with something simple, something to get North's attention—her mouth. Summer's lips are full like our mother's, though she never knows when to stop singing. Even when she's hibernating, her songs hit number one on the charts. I'm looking forward to shutting her up.

With her golden dust in the paint pots, the hue is perfection. Next, I put my spin on the canvas. I'm more of a mixed media kind of girl, so I thread a needle with black embroidery thread, puncture the canvas from the back and then tie a little knot to keep it from slipping through. I wouldn't want the stitches to loosen. As I stitch from bottom to top lip, the cell phone buzzes on the desk. I smile as I finish the last six stitches. I could leave it at this. There's time to stop, but already my creativity craves more. The phone buzzes once more. As I admire her beautifully stitched lips, think of her unable to speak, I know it's not Summer calling. Giggling, I dip my brush back in the paint pot.

"What did you do to make North come for you? You didn't get out of your casket alone. Did you flash those sun-kissed legs or did you bat those long eyelashes?" I ask the canvas. Eyes, I decide. She has the most enticing stare. I swipe the brush across the canvas filling in the arch of her blonde eyebrows, next the lashes above and below, but I'm thinking blue won't compliment the lips, so instead of painting her pupils, I puncture two perfect ovals where the sockets are. I lean forward, peeking through to the other side.

Thoron bangs on the door. "Stop! Let me in!" With a wave of my hand, the locks seal with thick ice to mute his pleading.

The phone buzzes. With a heavy heart, I slide my finger across the screen. "Hello?"

"Winter, what have you done?"

My pulse races with the sound of North's voice, my hands tremble, but I must remain calm. "Well, I'm sitting in this miserable tower, with no advent gifts from you." I poise the brush against the canvas filling in the curve of Summer's nose.

"What do you mean?" North sounds genuinely surprised.

"Tomorrow is the fourth and I've received zilch from you. You've broken my heart." I dip my brush in pepper and fill in the nostrils. In the background, I hear her sneeze. "Oh, that must have hurt. Did she rip one of those pretty little stitches on her lip?"

"This is not a game." North's tone comes out as a growl.

"You should have thought about that before you went behind my back with my sister." I end the call, tossing the phone across the gallery. I'm done with him. Still, I want to finish his gift. Practiced and skilled at death, this won't take long.

The phone buzzes, vibrating along the floor. Irritated with the distraction, I freeze it with a quick wave of my hand. I'm not interested in hearing his pathetic excuses. With Summer's face complete, there's only one thing left I need. I paint the Northern Star in the center of her forehead; close my eyes and chant, "A season to live, a season to die, the cycle of life is yours and mine."

Leaning back on the stool, I open my eyes and sigh. The painting ripples as her image appears with perfection. Not the one I crafted, but Summer in her glorious splendor, with petals blooming in her golden curls. As she fills the canvas the room warms, melting the ice away.

At once, Thoron bursts into the gallery followed by a dazzling array of white lilies, crimson roses and a cage of the most exquisite monarch butterflies. He stares at the canvas, dropping to his knees. "I'm too late." The flowers fall at my bare feet, coating my toes with golden dust. A silver card pokes from the petals. I recognize the handwriting as I pick it up.

My true love,

This Christmas, I send you the gift of summer, for you warm my heart even on the coldest of nights.

Love always,

North

I grab the painting, hugging it to my chest. Tears stream my cheeks, real tears, not icicles, because her spirit is so strong in the canvas. In time, this too will fade; she'll be nothing more than a glimmer.

"You should have called North." Thoron gathers up the blossoms as the butterflies escape the open cage and flutter around the gallery.

"A summer theme for our advent. How wonderful!" Holding the painting out, I gaze upon my sister's face. Her eyes search the corners of the frame, seeking a way out. In time they'll fall still, as all portraits do. Not to worry, as I still have a month of advent before I present her to North; by then she should be less restless.

North's gifts have always outshone mine, but this year belongs to me. With a beautiful darkness slipping across my heart, I spin the canvas to face Thoron's sickened stare. "This is the best holiday ever."