Clementine turned his head to one side, then the other, studying the man in the mirror.
The changes went far beyond anything dye or an illusion could accomplish. His jaw had narrowed, his cheekbones sat higher, and the small scar near his chin had disappeared. In its place was the weathered complexion of a middle-aged priest accustomed to traveling between villages.
Gray touched the sides of his hair, which Hoyo had cut in the plain style favored by provincial members of the Holy Church.
"Praise be to the Divine Light."
The voice was deeper than his own, roughened by an age his throat had never possessed. Clementine smiled and repeated the phrase at a different pitch.
"Even the voice is perfect. How did you manage that?"
Behind him, Hoyo wiped blood from his hands with a white towel.
"The throat was suitable. Vocal cords are physical structures like anything else. Once I had the right ones, I adjusted the tension and the surrounding tissue to produce the voice you wanted."
