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134 pages, Hardcover
First published April 1, 2006
T. J. Redstone wouldn’t be caught dead in a skirt and dress shoes. She probably wouldn’t be caught alive in them, either.
In the karate class I’m taking, there are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of ways to disable your opponent. Unfortunately, I’d only been to one class so far, and all we’d had time for were warm-ups and going over the rules. I hadn’t even gotten to kick anything yet.
The cliff wall was a mile high and sheer as ice. Tiernay West carefully felt for every handhold, every possible foothold, however slight.
I set a foot into the face of the bluff. The foot sank into damp earth, making a foothold where there hadn’t been one before. I reached up, grabbing a root with one hand, more mud with the other, and I started scrambling up, hand, foot, hand, foot. It was a lot like climbing a tree, only squishier.
Tiernay West stalked through the forest, silent as the great cats of the African plains, deadly as the fabled Royal Assassins of Arakistan. With the eyes that had gotten her dubbed "Little Eagle," she scanned the verdant undergrowth, searching for the treasure hidden within.
Some motion made her pause. The shifting of a leaf, a scent upon the humid wind--with a single fluid motion she was up among the branches of an ancient oak. Adjusting her hat against the slanting sun, she settled in to watch. To wait.
***
"Tiernay! Tiernay, come out here this instant!"
I remained hidden among the branches of my favorite oak, not moving, not breathing. Well, trying not to breathe. You'd think that if Houdini could stay underwater for four minutes, if T.J. Redstone could conceal herself in the airless tomb of Arakistan's Hidden City for nearly a quarter hour, I could hold my breath long enough for Mom to cross the backyard.