For the first few minutes she stood at the ledge she thought only over her frustration. While she had not expected a warm, hospitable reception from the royal family (much less the prince himself), somehow things persistently felt worse than she imagined. Rhiane had chastised each and every candidate mentally for falling into the naive trap of imagining they would ever earn the affection of a prince. Yet she had herself, at the first glimmer of hope of compassion, thought herself capable of being [i]friends[/i] with the same man. As she stood in rumination she realized how folly she had been. At each turn of apparent consideration his motivation could be attributed to his own personal convenience: he carried her out of the restaurant to leave more quickly, he let her sleep in his bed so he could have silence for his work, he brought her to the island for his own enjoyment, and he pulled her out of the water so as not create a scandal or be burdened with a new fiancee. It the princess elect's desperation of companionship that had made her even contemplate socially engaging him with candor. Rhiane wanted an alternative but she had no notion of where to look given the knowledge that Cally could not keep secrets, Luke was self-absorbed and didn't value her as an ally, the court was full of venomous snakes, and the servants all owed their livelihood and allegiance to the queen.

When his royal highness draped his coat on her shoulders and held out her clothes she didn't react simply because she did not know [i]how[/i] to respond. The garments suggested concern for her comfort, as had pain medication in his room, but his tone and disposition did not. Luke was no fool. He knew she was upset but he was either too proud to inquire, too apathetic, or was annoyed at the inconvenience of her being a person with feelings. Because she continued to stare into the pool without even a whispered acknowledgement he deposited the articles on the ground and went back into the hovercraft. That he wouldn't care if she caught a cold was an odd statement since she never imagined he would in the first place.

As Luke retreated to the heated luxury of his vehicle she slowly knelt down and tried to grab at the fabric at her feet. Her fingers, however, had become stiff from the combination of prolonged exposure sinking temperatures and moisture. This confused Rhiane as she knew it wasn't frostbite. Harsh winter months had educated her at least to know it took hours for such a harmful status to take effect and jeopardize her limbs. Had she been a medical expert or had more experience under-dressing for inclement weather she might have recognized it as being the onset of something on entirely. All she knew at present was that she was perplexed and exasperated as the digits hooked under her blouse only to drop the shirt half a second later. Even if she was able to muster the strength to lift it was a literal impossibility to manipulate her jeans over her brace and clasp them at the waist. Buttons may as well have been doing calculus mathematics in her mind when she had never been taught the subject.

The princess elect sat down and held her legs to her chest as she tried to gather herself. All her thoughts were hazy as if a fog had descended upon her consciousness. The beautiful sunset of the west was forgotten as she flailed mentally for explanations that would have eluded her even well-rested, satiated, and at a perfect Celsius setting. Time only made it harder to comprehend instead of less.

Rhiane scooped up her clothes under her arms awkwardly, the only way she could apparently manage, turned, and stumbled back towards the hovercraft. Reaching her door she waited to see if Luke would open it for her given her bizarre behavior. The good leg was obedient to her wishes but the injured one was not. Her brace was not wholly inflexible but it had become mitigated with the sinking temperatures outside, making her roll of the ankle that everyone utilized in a normal gait, painfully difficult to accomplish. The princess elect could only imagine what she looked like to the crown prince that was used to women dripping in jewels and always picture perfect. She had no make up, she was half-undressed, her movement was rigid, and her visage unknowingly reflected the befuddlement that was encroaching on her intellect.

It would take a small miracle to return her to the castle and not have their image manager sending a report that her condition for the interview was poor. That, of course, made her all the more predictable. On her best of days Rhiane was privy to tempestuous changes of her mood. Given her predicament and that it was highly unlikely she would have dinner before speaking to the nation she was the truest meaning of the wild card for both Luke and the greater nation.