When the Waterwheel Freezes

Tavi was halfway up the iron stair beside the big waterwheel when it began to groan.

Pine-Crank Iceworks always sounded busy in the morning — hand bells, creaking winches, boots on wooden ramps, and the low hum of stoves working hard against the cold. But this sound was different. It was a long, shivery creak, like a tired door trying one last time to close.

Tavi put one boot on the next rung and leaned out for a better look. He was a slim boy with a green cap, a crooked grin, and patched trousers tucked into high boots, and he liked climbing where others had to stand back. From up high, he could see the waterwheel that powered part of the factory. It was a great dark wheel outside the wall, its blades rimmed with white frost. Cold river water still ran under it, but not enough. A sheet of slush — gray, wet ice-snow — was packed tight between two blades.

Mira, in her red knit cap and bright mittens, pointed from the walkway below. “It’s slowing!” she called.

Brin, with frost on his eyebrows and a brass clipboard under one arm, came hurrying out of the nearest shed. “Nobody touch that wheel without checking the rail line,” he said at once.

Tavi saw it too late. The wheel gave one small shudder, then stopped completely. The water that fed it slid past in a thin, unhappy stream. All around the yard, the warm-glow windows looked dimmer, and the little stove rooms seemed to be working harder already.

Tavi grabbed the railing and looked from the frozen blades to the slushy gap between them. He could reach the wheel if he climbed down and crossed the narrow edge by the wall — but the slush might pack tighter, and Brin was already frowning at the idea. If he waited, the cold would spread. If he went now, he had to choose how to get close enough without making things worse.