Noah's POV
The healer swirls the vial in a slow, deep, meditative way. Around and around. It would've been hypnotic if I weren't following the spirals down into the depths of panic.
The liquid inside sloshes like syrup, pale and faintly shimmering, and every turn of her wrist feels like it's wringing the air out of my lungs. I'm sitting here on the exam table, fingers clenched so hard into the paper sheet that it crinkles, and I can't tell if I want her to stop or keep going forever.
"Hm," she hums. Then, "Oh. Hm."
My heart lurches into my throat.
"What do you mean, hm?" My voice cracks embarrassingly, and I hate it.
The healer doesn't answer. She just squints harder, tipping the vial toward the lightbulb hanging above us like she's trying to divine secrets from the bottom of a teacup.
Astrid makes a strangled snort from her chair in the corner. "Oh gods. She's doing the old witch act. I hate this part."
I glare at her. "What part?"
