A long, slender foot landed in a pile of decaying oak leaves, sending some of them flying and crushing others. It rolled seamlessly from heal to toe and pushed off again as its twin touched the ground.
The owner of the feet was in a hurry. The speed with which she ran, with which she dodged between the thin, naked trees, was exceptional. Even with her awkward, jerking gait, it was next to impossible to keep up with her. She made almost no sound; the only indication of her placement was the crunching of dry leaves in the distance.
A couple of foxhounds ran behind her on all fours, sniffing their way through the fog, trying to trace her scent. A possum, with one hand on his bowler hat to keep it from falling off, ran behind them, barely able to see and unable to smell anything other than the dogs, the fog and the pervading scent of leaf mold.
And Craven Lorne, alone, and at the back of the pack, screamed into the gloom that he would never, ever forgive her.