The Winter Stylist of Québec – Part 3: The Frozen River

"Where would he take her?" Mathieu asked.

Félix closed his eyes and thought of fifteen years in the salon chair. Every secret. Every story.

"Their cabin," he said suddenly. "On Île d'Orléans. Across the river. She always said it was the only place she could truly be quiet."

The bridge was jammed with Carnaval traffic. They would never make it in time.

"There is another way," Mathieu said. "The ice-canoe teams. They cross the river every day during Carnaval."

They found a team packing up on the shore, and Mathieu, who seemed to know everyone, talked fast. Ten minutes later, Félix was in a canoe in his cream wool coat, painted nails gripping a paddle, sliding and rowing across the frozen, broken river in the dark with five strangers, while Mathieu called the police.

They reached the island at the same time as the police cars.

The cabin windows were lit. Inside, Simon was packing a suitcase. Hélène was sitting at the kitchen table, pale and furious but unharmed. He had locked her in after taking her from the hotel, meaning to keep her hidden until he could move the money abroad.

When the police came through the door, Simon did not resist. He simply sat down on the floor.

Hélène saw Félix in the doorway, soaking wet, snow in his hair, his coat ruined.

She laughed and cried at the same time.

"Look at your hair," she said. "Mon Dieu, Félix. Who is going to fix it?"

Two nights later, Hélène sang at the Ice Palace after all. The whole city came. When she reached the last song, she stopped and told the crowd that she was dedicating it to her stylist and to an ice sculptor, "who brought me home across the river."

Félix stood at the back of the crowd in a new coat, cream again, and found Mathieu beside him, his hands in his pockets, snow on his shoulders.

"You did not have to stay," Félix said.

"I wanted to see how it ended," Mathieu said.

After the concert, Mathieu walked him back through the old town under falling snow. At the hotel door, he took something from his pocket. A tiny ice carving, already beginning to melt in his warm hand. A snowflake.

"It won't last," Mathieu said.

Félix took it anyway and held it, watching the light shine through it.

"The best things don't," he said softly. He paused. "That's why you make another one."

Mathieu smiled. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

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Next: The Tailor of the Waterfront, three identical suits, a harbour in Cape Town and a measuring tape held out at the end.