"Then you can still heal the sick?" I asked. She shrugged. "I want you to try," I added.
"Not till I get a sign," she said, moving uneasily. "I'm to get a sign."
I waved my hands in disgust and turned away from her. "There had to be some fakery in it somewhere," I said. "You couldn't heal a hang-nail!"
"Not a fake!" she said hotly. "I have healed the sick!"
"Don't get uppity," I said. "So have I. You see," I told her. "I'm a doctor. Not much of a one," I admitted, pointing to my weak right arm. "I can't heal myself."
"Oh, yore pore arm," she said.
"Show me," I said, turning on her. "Heal me!"
"I'm to have a sign!" she wailed.
Well, she got one. I took her to my room, pointed at the dresser. One of the glasses on the tray beside a pitcher rose, floated into the bath and, after we had both heard the water run, came back through the air and tilted to trickle a few drops of water onto her head.
Her words gave her away—she was no mystic. She swung her eyes back to me: "TK!" she gasped. She recoiled from me. She'd had a viper to her bosom.