Fox's Glade be cunning, and full of tricks

it was the second day since mona had departed tindome and discovered she was unsure if she wished to return. she wandered alone through the little trove of lingering fox-scent, wrinkling her muzzle somewhat in a brief and vague disgust, more instinctual than truly felt. and for the third time that day, the little mayfair's vision soon blurred with tears.
sighing sharply at her eyes' inability to retain their stupid moisture, mona sat down heavily alongside a half-buried stone, fixing her lips in a bitter pout.
what was wrong with her? why did everything she felt come with the price of tears? sniffling noisily, sure she was alone, the witch-child stared at the snow, her sobs soon lessening and trailing to the occasional tremble of her scarlet-hued shoulders.