18
Once I leave Jamboree Hall, it isn’t hard to find Prescott’s HQ. It’s a traditional-looking log cabin, only on a huge scale. Two human guards stand at the front door, both of them men. What a sausage party. That can work to my advantage, though. I do my best to seem super-mopey as I slog my way closer. I pause before the guards. “I’ve been sent” —sniffle, sniffle— “to the headmaster’s office.”
One of the guards pushes the door open. “You should watch your mouth, girly. Headmaster doesn’t like it when the students sass off.”
I purse my lips. I have to admit, hearing about my little incident already? That’s impressive.
“You know what just happened in Jamboree Hall?” I ask.
The guard’s eyes narrow. “It’s a small island. We know about everything that happens on our side of it.”
Our si
