Paula sighed, pushing back her hair in a weary gesture. “All right, Skeeter. I don’t have everything I’d like, not to do a face job of that magnitude, but I think we can do a creditable job of making you look like Armstrong. Enough to suit, anyway. Fortunately, your bone structure and coloring are very similar, as you’ve pointed out. And we do have good photos of Armstrong to work from. That’ll help. Let me get my medical bag. I brought through a lot of instruments and medicines to supplement Spaldergate’s supply. You realize, this is going to put you out of commission for about a week? It’ll take that long for the swelling and bruising to fade and the stitches to heal where I nip and tuck.”
“Yeah, we figured it would take a while. That’ll give Malcolm and the others a chance to lay the trap for Sid. And it’ll give you time to work with Ianira, too.”
“All right, Skeeter. We’ll have to tell Sid something so he won’t grow suspicious about your absence.”
Skeeter nodded. “We’ll spread the word I was hit by a carriage or a wagon and had to be rushed into surgery.”
“That should work. Let’s go down to the Vault, then, and get started.”
Eight hours later, Skeeter woke up in recovery to a dull throb of pain all through his face and the muffling, claustrophobic feel of bandages. As he swam toward full consciousness, with the sounds of a heart monitor beeping somewhere beside his ear, his gaze focused slowly on Margo, who sat beside his bed.
“Hi,” she said quietly. “Don’t try to say anything, Skeeter.”