Book Confessions of an Ex-Ballerina

I watched Delah move as we followed her through the forest. There was something about her that was different, physically, the way she moved. There was almost a stomping motion as she walked. Not the soft glide that I pictured floating down the monastery halls. And her hair, it was a deep fire read that she wore in long waves down her back. A braid circled the crest of her forehead to keep the hair out of her eyes. The girl I had left at the monastery always wore her pale strawberry hair, stick straight in a long braid down her back. Much like I did. I was beginning to think this person was not Delah.

None of that bothered me as much as one thing. I couldn't push past the fact that the girl that was relentlessly leading us through the underbrush of this mountain side had pale skin, not unlike my own. My Delah was tan. You can’t wash away a tan in two days no matter how hard you try.

No, this was not my Delah. She looked just like her, but it was not her. I didn't know who this impostor was, but I intended to find out. Somehow I would find out.