Biscuit leaned over and whispered, “Do you actually have a plan?”
“About forty percent of one,” I whispered back. She nodded like that was completely acceptable, which honestly made me feel great.
The fog maze was behind us now. We’d found our way out by following the smell Biscuit had been tracking — something she described as “burnt toffee mixed with gray crayon and a very sad Tuesday” — which turned out to be the base of Sky Tower, a tall, crooked structure of dark stone that floated just above the treeline like it had forgotten to come back down. A rickety staircase spiraled up its outside, and at the very top, through the haze, I could just barely see the glow of hundreds of glass jars.
Stolen sunrises. Stolen auroras. All of them trapped up there while the rest of us lived under a flat gray sky that smelled, according to Biscuit, of old socks and sadness.
And somewhere in that tower: the stolen hats.
