She’d left her car several blocks away, seizing the first free parking space she’d been able to find. Now she walked quickly away from the river, away from the more touristy parts of the French Quarter, toward the quieter, residential blocks. Even here in the city, surrounded by lights and noise, one could still notice the changing of the seasons. Sophie thought longingly of the several years she and Manon had spent in northern Virginia. For an almost perfect, storybook balance of seasons, Virginia was the place to go—even better than Paris. Three months of real winter, including actual snow. Three months of glorious spring, the kind of spring that had first inspired the goddess’s festivals: a giddy, heady rebirth of life in all forms, painting the earth in a wash of fresh, bright colors. Three months of actual hot summer, hot enough to go swimming in rivers and lakes, hot enough to bask in the sun, feeling languid and soft. Then autumn, the first tingly breezes leaving one’s cheeks chilled; the fiery, painted leaves as trees shut down for winter.
