Master Cornelius's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Cornelius pressed himself against the frost-coated wall outside the studio, his breath forming small clouds in the morning air. Through the narrow window, he could see Elsa's workbench. He had positioned himself here before dawn, before the other scholars arrived for their daily rounds. But the angle was wrong. He could see her tools, the ice blocks stacked in the yard beyond, yet when she worked, her hands disappeared from view. He needed height. The old watchtower stood three hundred paces north, abandoned since last winter's storms damaged its foundation. From the upper windows, he would have a clear view of the entire practice yard. He climbed the tower stairs that afternoon, copper calipers weighing down his cloak pocket. The wood groaned under his boots. Through the narrow slit windows, he could see everything—the ice blocks arranged in neat rows, the place where Elsa carved each morning. He set the calipers on the sill and adjusted their angle markings. When she worked tomorrow, he would measure every motion, every degree of her chisel's arc. His rainbow eyebrows caught the light as he leaned forward. The watchtower was perfect. No one came here anymore. From this height, he could finally see how she breathed life into frozen water, how she made dead ice move. He pulled his hood lower and settled onto the floor to wait for morning.