She could speak to horses. And apparently they spoke back.

You might find this impressive, but, well, she also cured dog allergies. Once and for all.

And this, we were as ready as anyone to believe.

She was a mystic and a healer. She shot guns in her spare time. She was vouched for by a friend who claimed she had cured her son of ADHD.

That's right, we're talking miracles of the penicillin level: a distracted ten-year-old, healed, sharpened to mad focus.

Which may beg the question: is wanting to believe nearly 50% of the way to the truth?

You're wondering what it might cost to lift the lifetime burden of dog allergies?

She offered exclusivity. She was mostly retired. She only did this type of thing in special cases for people who know people.

We figured a few grand would do the trick.

"How about $70?" she offered plainly, as if we're haggling the cost of lunch.

Her house sits forty minutes outside Boulder, on the dusty outcrop of a mostly dirt field of sun-drenched tans; a one-story ranch, bleached by the sun into unrecognizable color. Our Mystic was middle-aged and slim of build, with short-cropped black hair, framing crinkle-fry furrows at the edge of her eyes.

Two dogs pace in her doorway. One a terrifying-to-your-core type, its tail stiff with adrenaline; Our Mystic noted that allergies aside, it was best to avoid that one.

Sarah lies supine on a makeshift massage table in a tiny sunlit backroom. From a low-rise hutch, Our Mystic pulls a tray brimming with tiny bottles the color of burnt whisky.

They're marked: "dander," "feathers," "dust mites," and other oddities.

She bleats G'day and brekkie and sunnies in an Australian accent so hypnotic it's like a snake charmer blowing into a pungi.

She brims with stories of the Outback; of ex-lovers and escapades - and of chakras and spirits and the soul, as if flipping cards in a magic show.

She places bottles on Sarah's stomach, and pushes her arm down, noting weakness there. Then, strangely, she kicks one foot perpendicular, as if a clock hand moving from noon to three; this she coordinates with clicks and clucks from her tongue.

Three minutes later, the arm test again: Lo and behold! - it’s strong, maintaining its salute.

“All fixed,” Our Mystic states, "clean bill of health, everything in line."

But we're not free yet; she shuffles around her tray, grabbing more vials as if picking pistachios from a bowl of mixed nuts.

"Have any plant allergies? Birch or pollen maybe? Might as well take care of those too," Our Mystic commits us without an answer.

On the way out, Sarah tentatively hugs the second more passive dog. This proves exactly nothing - we’re told it’s hypoallergenic - but no matter, Our Mystic says her success is foolproof.

"$200," she requests, nearly tripling the original offer. "For the other allergies," and leaves us to mill about in her driveway, waiting for an Uber.

Back in Boulder, Sarah cautiously gives a few head scratches to Elvis, our friend's massive long-coated black Briard. No reaction. Nothing, not a sniffle, not a cough.

Pretty soon Sarah's petting every dog she can find. She's crossing the street to meet dogs that shed with every step. It’s as if she’s huffing dander, addicted to the freedom.

She's cured.

Her business partner's dog is welcome in the office. We talk of getting a dog ourselves.

We figure we judged wrong. Maybe there are people who operate on another plane - who can talk to horses, tap into magic, maybe even read the body’s chakras.

We figure sometimes there's truth in places where you least expect it. That Mystics and healers may operate hidden in plain sight - ignorantly discounted by mere mortals.

This we believe for about four months. Because that's when Sarah's allergies started up again - raging - as if returning refreshed from an extended vacation.

If there's a lesson here, it may be that we all know magic is really just an illusion.

Or more importantly: it's not who you believe in, it’s what belief can make briefly appear true.