Eleven

The look Harrow gives her is flatly unimpressed. "Deflection and obfuscation work poorly when someone's already witnessed you moving things with a mere wave of your hand." There is the whisper of doubt at the back of her mind, the coldly mocking voice that reminds her of her chronic insanity, asking can you trust the evidence of your own eyes, Harrowhark?, but she brushes it off, smothers it until it dies--or at least subsides. She knows what she saw, and she knows that it was real; that is enough.

"I ask again. What was that?"