Page 62 of House of Marionne

He stops.

“If you can share.”

His hand rises ever so carefully, halting just before touching my face. I take a deliberate breath because it seems I’ve forgotten how to.

“Close your eyes.” The tips of his fingers brush my eyelids, and his touch is gentler than a breeze. “Now listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Yes, you do.” He’s so close I can feel his breath on my skin. It’s warm and inviting, and the urge to curl into him tugs at me. “Describe what you hear.”

“Wind and rustling leaves.”

The crinkle of leaves morphs into a flit of bird chirps. One at first, then more until the breeze whipping through the trees is soundless and I could swear I’ve been transported to an aviary. I open my eyes, looking for a bird, some source of the sound. But only find Jordan, blowing air between his fingers.

A dark memory stalks through my mind and I take a step back. The Dragun hunting me could manipulate sound, too. I dig a nail into my palm to stay in the present. “You can transfigure sound?”

The chirps fade, his magic wearing off.

“An Audior is the proper term.”

“Was it hard to learn?”

“It’s in my blood. Headmistress Perl is my aunt, so our magic is strong.”

“And what about your other two strands?” Why does one of them look like toushana?

“May I touch your hand?”

The question catches me off guard. The gentleness of his tone, the lack of expectation. He’s entirely confusing, and my insides swim with flutters. My hands are warm, the curse in my veins at bay. The idea of letting him touch my hand, on purpose, unsettles something deep inside me in a thrilling way.

“Never mind,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I lie.

“Sure, Miss Marionne.”

“Call me Quell.”

“Quell.” My name rolls off his tongue like suede, with an inflection, a smoothness I could listen to over and over again.

“Watch closely.” He drags a thumb down the center of his face, and his skin morphs as if it’s being unzipped to reveal someone else behind it. His green eyes bleed to brown, his features twisting until he’s completely unrecognizable, several inches shorter, with a long beard and hooked nose. He holds the disguise a moment, straining. Then he releases and the disguise dissolves. He groans.

“Are you okay?”

“Feels like your head’s being squished between metal plates.” He pants. “The longer you hold it, the more it hurts. And the more disguises you master, the more taxing it is to use them. I’ve only taken two personas—face, body, voice, the whole bit, which required a long time of studying them, their mannerisms, their personalities, and a bit of their blood. But after I used the face I just showed you for the first time, I was in bed for a week.” He shudders.

He’s an Anatomer. “I didn’t mean to make you—”

“I wanted to.”

Something shifts between us.

“Well, it’s very cool and a bit creepy.”

That almost gets a laugh out of him.

“And the third magic?” Hope cinches in my chest, eager to hear what he might reveal.