Felltree Marsh the heron's legs.

Mireille!

Sobo's voice cracked at the tail end of his call, but where he might otherwise have winced, now he was so consumed with singular purpose, he didn't notice. He stalked over the frozen wetland, clambering over trees that toppled long ago or going around them when he could. He swung his head this way and that, eyes peeled for anything remotely red-furred on the horizon.

Mireille had not rallied to the tunnel during the storm and had not been seen since. Sobo was worried sick and unable to rest until he found her. There was no way she was lost for good. Absolutely no way. His frantic movements would betray that he was searching for something if his hoarse voice did not.

Mireeeille!