The Last Clear Block

The entire town held its breath, not for the winter festival, but for the scandalous secret trapped within a melting block of ice.

Betty thought the world had a fever. That was the only explanation. Winter wasn't supposed to feel like this, like a damp wool blanket you couldn't kick off. The air, which should have been sharp enough to bite her cheeks pink, was soft and heavy. It carried the smell of mud. In January, the world was not supposed to smell of mud. It was supposed to smell of nothing at all, a clean, cold emptiness that snapped your breath into a tiny cloud.

But the clouds were gone. The sky was the colour of a dishcloth, grey and tired. And everywhere, there was the sound. Drip. Drip. Drip. A terrible, tiny song played from the eaves of every building in Silver Creek, from the skeletal branches of the maple trees, from the very heart of the great, groaning lake. It was the sound of winter giving up.

And with winter went the Ice Harvest Festival, which was, according to her mother, the entire point of the season. It wasn't about the cold or the snow. It was about the Festival, the one week where Silver Creek pretended it was a grand city. There were sleigh rides and skating parties and, at the centre of it all, the magnificent ice sculptures carved by Monsieur Dubois from the clearest blocks of lake ice. Her mother said the Festival was the engine of society. Betty pictured a tiny, polite steam engine chugging along on a track made of frozen gossip.

This year, however, the engine was sputtering. The ice was cloudy, softened by the sly warmth. For weeks, the ice crews had worked from dawn until the last gasp of grey light, their saws whining across the lake, searching for perfection. They sought blocks of ice as clear as a cathedral window, ice without a single bubble or flaw. It was from these pristine blocks that Monsieur Dubois would carve his masterpiece for the festival’s opening night: a soaring eagle, or a majestic moose, or, one year, a shockingly accurate rendering of the Queen, who looked very stern about being made of frozen water.

Betty sat on a crate near the edge of the lake, her boots sinking slightly into the slushy snow. Her father was one of the foremen, a man whose face was a map of winter winds. Today, his map was full of worry. She watched him skate back and forth, his voice a low rumble across the ice, directing the men and their enormous, snorting horses. They were pulling the last harvest of the season, and it was a poor one. The blocks were milky, shot through with white veins. Unsuitable. Common.

"It’s a disaster, a veritable catastrophe," a voice trilled from behind her. Betty didn't need to turn. She knew the sound of Mrs. Twerlin’s ostrich-feather hat. It seemed to whisper on the air before the woman herself spoke. Mrs. Twerlin was the undisputed queen of the Festival Committee, which meant she was the queen of Silver Creek society. Her words were always sweet, like maple candy, but they could crack a tooth if you weren't careful.

Allen, the town's mayor, stood beside her. He was a tall man who was always smiling, but his smile never quite reached his eyes. His eyes were like two polished stones, watching everything. "Now, now, Eleanor," he said, his voice smooth as polished sleigh runners. "Let us not succumb to despair. Providence will provide. It always does."

Mrs. Twerlin tapped her fur-lined muff against her palm. Drip. Drip. The sound came from the brim of Allen's hat. "Providence appears to be providing a rather significant puddle, Mr. Mayor. Monsieur Dubois cannot carve a puddle. He is an artist, not a water-witch."

Betty watched them, these two giants of her small world. They were always circling each other, their words like carefully chosen chess pieces. It was a game she didn't understand, but she knew the board was the entire town, and everyone else was just a pawn.

Her father’s voice boomed out, sharp with excitement for the first time all day. "Here! We have one! A clear one!"

A ripple of energy went through the men on the ice. The horses strained, their hooves churning the slushy surface. Slowly, painstakingly, they dragged a colossal block from the dark water. It was magnificent. A perfect, crystalline rectangle, as transparent as air. It seemed to hold the grey light of the sky within itself, magnifying it. A collective sigh of relief went through the small crowd gathered on the shore. Allen clapped his hands together. Mrs. Twerlin allowed a small, triumphant smile to grace her lips.

"Providence," Allen declared, his smile finally looking genuine. "And the hard work of our good men, of course."

The block was guided onto a heavy sled. Men surrounded it, their breath fogging the air, their faces flushed with victory. They had done it. They had found the heart of the festival. Monsieur Dubois would have his canvas. As two men, Corey and Jean-Paul, used long poles to steady the block, something shifted inside. A trick of the light. A shadow that wasn't a shadow.

Corey, a man with a beard like a frozen waterfall, leaned closer. He squinted. "What in thunder…?"

Betty, drawn by the change in tone, slipped off her crate and crept closer. The adults were forming a tight circle, but she was small enough to slip between a fur coat and a tweed jacket. She peered through the forest of legs and saw it.

There, suspended in the dead centre of the ice, was a folded piece of paper. It was a creamy white, the edges slightly feathered by the water before it had frozen solid. Through the impossibly clear ice, she could see the writing. It was elegant, looping script, black ink against the pale paper, as clear as if it were pressed under glass.

A letter. A letter in the heart of the ice.

The silence that fell was heavier than the damp air. It was a thick, sudden silence that swallowed the dripping sounds, the snorting of the horses, the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. No one moved. They just stared. The perfect block of ice had a flaw after all. And the flaw was a secret.

Allen was the first to break the stillness. He took a step forward, his polished boots crunching on the ice. "Well," he said, his voice a tight, false-sounding thing. "How… curious."

"Curious?" Mrs. Twerlin’s voice was sharp enough to chip glass. She had produced a lorgnette from somewhere inside her voluminous coat and was peering through it at the block. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the golden handle. "It is an anomaly. A contaminant. It ruins the aesthetic."

Betty knew that was a lie. The letter didn't ruin the block; it made it interesting. It was a story trapped in a cage of ice. She pressed closer, trying to make out the words. She could see a looping 'D', a sharp 'T', and then a name, clearly written: '…sincerely, Genevieve…'

A gasp rippled through the adults. It was a tiny sound, but in the profound silence, it was like a shout. Betty knew that name. Genevieve was Allen’s wife, who had passed away two winters ago. A woman spoken of in hushed, saintly tones.

The mayor’s face had gone rigid. The smile was completely gone, replaced by a mask of pale, waxy concentration. He looked at the block not as a curiosity, but as one might look at a venomous snake coiled in the middle of the parlour rug.

"This block must be secured," he said, his voice low and commanding. "It is… evidence. Of a geological… peculiarity. I shall have it taken to my office for study. For the good of the town, of course. We must understand these strange lake currents."

"Geological peculiarity?" Mrs. Twerlin lowered her lorgnette, her eyes flashing. "Mr. Mayor, this is not a rock. It is the centerpiece of the Ice Harvest Festival. It falls under the jurisdiction of the Festival Committee. It will be moved to a secure location of *my* choosing, to protect it from this unfortunate… thaw. Its artistic integrity is paramount."

Betty watched, fascinated. They weren't talking about lake currents or art. They were talking about the letter. They both wanted it. Badly. Their polite words were little daggers, flicking out at each other.

"The Mayor’s office is hardly equipped to preserve such a delicate piece," Mrs. Twerlin continued, her tone dripping with false concern. "The temperature is not stable. It requires the specialized environment of my insulated carriage house. And the constant supervision of my staff."

"And I suppose your staff are experts in glaciology, Eleanor?" Allen retorted, his own voice tight with barely-veiled sarcasm. "No, this is a matter of civic importance. It will be stored in the lock-up at the town hall. For its protection."

Betty's father, looking bewildered by this sudden, high-stakes debate over a block of ice, finally spoke up. "Mr. Mayor, Mrs. Twerlin… it’s just an old letter. Probably fell in the water last autumn. We can just… let it melt."

A horrified silence met his suggestion. Allen and Mrs. Twerlin both turned to look at him as if he had suggested burning down the church. The sheer horror on their faces was comical. Let it melt? Let the secret spill out for everyone to see? Unthinkable.

"Absolutely not!" they said, almost in unison. The force of their shared denial made Betty jump.

Allen quickly regained his composure. "The… historical value could be immense. We mustn’t be hasty." He gestured to two constables who had been watching the proceedings with idle curiosity. "Constable, assist these men. We are commandeering this… artifact… for official town business."

Mrs. Twerlin’s eyes narrowed. "You will do no such thing! This is an affront to the festival! An affront to every citizen of Silver Creek who has looked forward to this celebration! I will not have our traditions trampled by your… geological surveys!"

A crowd was gathering now, drawn by the commotion. Whispers started to flutter like moths. Betty heard snippets. "…a letter?" "…the mayor’s late wife?" "…what could it say?" The secret was already leaking, even if the ice held firm.

The ice block sat on its sled, indifferent to the storm raging around it. Water trickled down its sides, each drop a tick of a clock that everyone could hear. The looping script inside seemed to mock them, safe and sound in its frozen prison.

In the end, a tense compromise was reached. The block would be taken to the town’s main ice house, a stone building that was the coldest, most secure place in Silver Creek. It would be placed under a joint guard: one of the mayor’s constables and one of Mrs. Twerlin’s groundskeepers. Neither trusted the other to be alone with the melting secret.

Betty followed the procession, a small shadow in the wake of the great drama. The sled, pulled by four horses now, slid through the muddy streets. People came out of their shops to watch. The block was no longer just a piece of ice; it was a celebrity. It was a mystery on parade.

The ice house was a dark, cold place that smelled of sawdust and winter. It was Betty's favourite place to play in the summer, a cave of cold in a world of heat. Now, it felt like a tomb. The great block was slid into the centre of the stone floor. The two guards took up their positions on either side, looking deeply uncomfortable. The heavy oak door was shut, and a great iron bar was dropped into place. The secret was locked away. But for how long?

That afternoon, the polite war began in earnest. Mrs. Twerlin announced an emergency meeting of the Festival Committee to be held at her house. It was, the invitation said, to discuss 'contingency plans for the centerpiece, given the unusual atmospheric conditions.' Betty’s mother was on the committee, so Betty was bundled into her Sunday coat and taken along.

The Twerlin parlour was the fanciest room Betty had ever seen. It was filled with velvet chairs, porcelain dolls with dead eyes, and a silence so thick you could have carved it. The air smelled of lemon polish and rising panic. Mrs. Twerlin served tea in cups so thin Betty was afraid to breathe on them. She passed around tiny cakes with a plate, a silent observer moving through the currents of adult anxiety.

"The structural integrity of the ice is my primary concern," Mrs. Twerlin said, her voice a smooth river of concern. "This unseasonable warmth… it could cause internal fractures. We need an expert. Someone who can stabilize it. My cousin in Montreal is a renowned chemist. I have already sent him a telegram."

Mr. Abernathy, who owned the lumber mill, cleared his throat. "A chemist, Eleanor? For a block of ice?"

"For a priceless piece of civic art, Mr. Abernathy," she corrected gently. "We cannot risk its destruction. We must move it to a more… scientifically appropriate facility. I am prepared to have my carriage house retrofitted immediately. A private expense, of course. For the good of the town."

Betty saw the looks that passed between the committee members. They knew. They all knew this wasn't about art. It was a bid for possession. A power play disguised as civic duty. If the block was in Mrs. Twerlin's house, its secrets belonged to her.

Just then, the Twerlin’s butler entered the room, his face impassive. "Beg pardon, madam. The Mayor is here. He says it is a matter of urgent public safety."

Allen strode into the room, bringing the smell of damp wool and authority with him. He nodded curtly to the committee. "Ladies, gentlemen. Forgive the intrusion. I have just come from the town hall. We have received a bulletin from the territorial government. There are… concerns. About the purity of the lake water this season. They recommend all harvested ice be subjected to rigorous testing."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "For the public health, you understand. I have therefore ordered the block to be moved to Dr. Green's office. He will… take samples. The process may take several days. We must not risk a contagion."

Betty nearly giggled. A contagion? From a letter? The adults were being so silly. They were inventing dragons to slay, all to get their hands on the treasure.

Mrs. Twerlin rose slowly from her chair. She and Allen faced each other across a Persian rug, two generals maneuvering their troops. "A contagion, Mayor? How fascinatingly dire. And this bulletin, it arrived just now? How… timely."

"The wheels of government grind slowly, Eleanor, but they are thorough," he replied, his smile thin and sharp. "Public safety must take precedence over… festivities."

The air in the room was so tight Betty felt she might pop. It was a battle of excuses, of official-sounding reasons that meant nothing at all. Chemistry versus contagion. Art versus public health. It was wonderful.

The next day, the entire town was buzzing. The story of the letter had grown wings. Some said it was a treasure map. Others, a confession to a crime. Mrs. Gable from the bakery swore she’d heard it was a secret love letter written by Sir John A. Macdonald himself. The ice block had become a legend overnight.

Betty decided to conduct her own investigation. She slipped away from her mother at the general store and made her way to the ice house. The path was a mess of mud and melting snow. The drip-drip-drip was louder today, a frantic, hurried rhythm. She didn’t go to the front door, where the guards stood, but around the back, to a small, high window that was sometimes left unlatched.

She pulled a discarded barrel over and scrambled up. The window was stiff, but it gave way with a groan. She hoisted herself up and peered into the chilly gloom. There it was. The block sat in the middle of the floor, a ghost in the darkness. It was smaller. Definitely smaller. A puddle was spreading around its base on the stone floor. It was sweating, weeping its secret away, drop by precious drop.

The two guards, a constable in his blue uniform and a groundskeeper in muddy tweed, were not standing vigil. They were arguing in heated whispers.

"The Mayor said not to let it out of my sight!" the constable hissed.

"And Mrs. Twerlin said I was to ensure it remained properly insulated! These blankets are essential!" the groundskeeper shot back, holding a thick pile of wool blankets.

"Blankets? It’s ice! You don’t warm it up! That’s sabotage!" a third voice said. Betty craned her neck. A man in a white coat, presumably Dr. Green, stood there with a small leather bag. "The mayor sent me to take a sample. For testing."

"No one is touching this block!" the groundskeeper insisted, planting himself in front of it like a bulldog. "It is a priceless artifact!"

Betty watched as they bickered, three men caught in the invisible war between the mayor and the queen of society. The constable wanted to follow orders. The groundskeeper wanted to protect his employer’s prize. The doctor just wanted to do the job he was sent for. And all the while, the block just sat there, shrinking. Melting.

She realized something then. The adults weren’t just trying to get the letter. They were terrified of it. Terrified of what it would say when the ice finally gave up its ghost. The fear was making them foolish, sending them on ridiculous errands with blankets and test tubes.

The festival was set to begin that evening, thaw or no thaw. It was a matter of civic pride. The town square was decorated with evergreen boughs and strings of lanterns. But the usual joyful energy was absent. In its place was a nervous, watchful excitement. The main attraction wasn't the skating or the hot cider; it was the block. The block was the guest of honour.

After a frantic series of closed-door negotiations, a new compromise had been brokered. The block would be brought to the square. It would be displayed on the main dais, as planned. But it would be surrounded by a velvet rope, and guarded by *both* of the mayor's constables and *both* of Mrs. Twerlin's senior groundskeepers. A four-man honour guard for a piece of melting ice.

Betty stood in the crowd with her parents. Her father kept shaking his head and muttering about the foolishness of it all. Her mother kept smoothing her gloves, her eyes darting towards the dais where Mrs. Twerlin stood, and then to the other side, where Mayor Allen was preparing to give the opening address. They stood on opposite sides of the ice block, like two monarchs laying claim to a disputed territory.

The block was unveiled to a collective intake of breath. It was noticeably diminished, its sharp edges softened and rounded. It looked less like a majestic crystal and more like a giant, half-sucked lozenge. Under the warm yellow glow of the lanterns, its surface glistened with a film of water. The drips were faster now, a steady patter on the wooden platform. You could see the letter inside more clearly than ever, a dark promise at its core.

Allen stepped up to the podium. He cleared his throat, holding a sheet of paper that trembled slightly in his hand. He smiled his polished smile at the crowd, but his eyes kept flicking to the ice block beside him.

"Citizens of Silver Creek!" he began, his voice booming artificially. "Welcome! Welcome to the annual Ice Harvest Festival! A testament to our town's resilience, our community spirit, and our ability to triumph over the challenges of nature!"

Betty watched Mrs. Twerlin. She wasn't listening to the speech. Her entire being was focused on the block. She held a small, elegant fan, and she tapped it against her gloved hand in time with the dripping water. Tap. Drip. Tap. Drip. A countdown.

The crowd was restless. They clapped politely at the mayor's words, but their eyes, every single pair of eyes in the square, were fixed on the ice. They were waiting. They weren't sure for what, but the air was thick with anticipation. The secret was there, on display for all to see, yet still unreadable. The tension was becoming unbearable.

"This year," Allen continued, his voice straining, "we celebrate a particularly unique centerpiece. A wonder of nature! A testament to the mysteries that lie in the depths of our great lake!"

He was trying to spin it, to turn the scandal into a sideshow attraction. But his voice lacked conviction. He knew, and Mrs. Twerlin knew, and now the whole town knew, that this was no wonder of nature. It was a human secret, and its time was running out. The puddle at the base of the block was spreading, creeping towards the edge of the dais.

Betty held her breath. She could feel the collective tension of the crowd as a physical pressure, like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks. Everything seemed to slow down. The mayor’s mouth opening to speak again. Mrs. Twerlin’s fan frozen mid-tap. The slow, glistening tear of a water droplet preparing to fall from the block’s lowest corner.

Then came the sound.

It wasn’t a drip. It was a sharp, violent noise that cut through the mayor's speech and the nervous murmuring of the crowd. It was a sound like a branch snapping in a frozen forest, or a pane of glass breaking. It was the sound of something solid giving way.

CRACK.

It echoed through the town square, sharp and final. Every single person froze. Mayor Allen’s mouth hung open, a word left unspoken. Mrs. Twerlin’s fan clattered to the wooden platform. Down the centre of the Last Clear Block, a jagged, silvery line appeared, splitting the ice from top to bottom, running directly through the heart of the frozen letter.