The Winter Stylist of Québec – Part 2: The Ice Palace

His name was Mathieu Roy. He had built ice for the Carnaval for twelve years, and he knew the Palace like the inside of his own hands.

"There is a service passage," he said. "We use it to bring in the lights."

They went in through a narrow gap between the blocks. Inside, the world was blue and silent, the walls glowing from within, every sound muffled. Their breath froze in the air.

The sealed room was at the very back. Mathieu ran his gloved hand along the wall until he found a block that did not match. Newer. Rougher.

"Someone has added this," he said. "Today."

He took his chisel from his belt and began to work. Félix held the torch. Ice dust glittered in the light like snow falling backwards.

When the block finally came free, they looked into a small, empty, frozen room.

No Hélène. Just her phone on the floor, the screen cracked. And her silver hairpin, carefully placed beside it.

"She left it here on purpose," Félix whispered. "She wanted me to find it."

He picked up the phone. It still had a little battery. The last thing on it was a voice memo, recorded at four-thirty that afternoon.

He pressed play.

Hélène's voice, low and frightened: "Félix, if you hear this, it's Simon. He has been taking the money for years. My money. I found the papers. I told him I was going to the police after the concert." A pause. "He said there would not be a concert."

Outside the Palace, a cheer went up from the crowd. Fireworks burst over the river.

Mathieu looked at his phone and went very still.

"There is an announcement," he said. "Hélène's concert has been cancelled. 'Exhaustion.'"

He paused.

"And Simon has just checked out of the hotel."

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Next: Part 3, The Frozen River. An ice-canoe crossing in the dark, a cabin on an island, and a snowflake that will not last.