The Sky-Road
The sky-road takes your weight like a dock takes it — solid, but with a hum underneath that says water down there. Except it's not water down there. It's the whole singing meadow, getting smaller.
“Don't look down,” says Sera. “Or do. It's rather wonderful.”
It is rather wonderful. You climb the spiral of light with the wind pulling your hair, up past a flock of birds with feathers like stained glass, up to where the clouds turn out to be solid in places — great white islands with gardens on them.
That's when you hear the horns. Three notes, high and bright and official, the exact sound of somebody important having noticed you.
“Cloud Court patrol,” says Sera, and her ears go flat. “Of course. The whole sky's on alert — the Pearl is missing and here comes a strange child up the road with the guardian who lost it.”