September 2003, Choisy-au-Bac, France. As I check out a pile of children’s books at the village library, my son thrusts another into my hands and insists we borrow it too: Adeline, Adelune et le feu des saisons (Grosz, 1996). We snuggle up at bedtime to read: once there were two sisters, born within an hour of each other, Adeline as beautiful as day, Adelune as beautiful as night. Adeline’s skin turns golden with the sun, while Adelune’s remains pale, caressed only by moonlight. In her blood-red dress, her chin stained red with raspberry juice, Adelune imagines suitors admiring her sister and oblivious to her own charms. To rid herself of her rival, she dispatches Adeline on a mission to defy the seasons and find flowers, fruits and berries in the winter snow. With her sunny disposition, Adeline succeeds, and her malicious twin greedily sets out in turn to gather more. Alas, her frosty approach angers the seasons, who send needles of snow in flurries to wound and bury her. My daughter clutches me tightly in fear as Adeline races out into the night, hurrying towards a bright stain on the snow, Adelune’s dress.