The Elevated

"...Is she feverish?" Harlow asked flatly.

"I'm not feverish." I snapped.

"You're babbling about falling out of the sky and magical doors," Harlow countered. "And your pupils are unfocused."

"They are not unfocused!"

Beladora stepped closer and cupped my cheeks, turning my face toward the light. "Oh, sweetheart... your eyes are a little glassy."

I pulled my face back, groaning. "I'm not sick!"

Harlow folder her arms. "Bel, get the thermometer."

My jaw dropped. "Absolutely not."

Beladora smiled warmly. Too warmly. "Absolutely yes."

Harlow lifted me from the chair with one arm, like I weighed the same as a scarf and deposited me on her hip.

(Picture from pinterst: @esterscanon)