“That’s not true.” Luke was staring at her in an expression that was both confused and frustrated. “Basic household drug for headache, stomachache, colds, cough, fever, plus a first aid kit cost less than the furniture you bought yesterday. Of course, your family can afford it.” He was leading them back to the argument about the intrinsic addicting property of poverty, which she and her family and a percentage of those who called themselves poor was guilty of. “You are no longer poor. Your father has been granted a noble title. It would have already been ratified had he shown up at the capital to sign the papers and formally receive the title.”

He crossed the bedroom and sat at his side of the bed with his back to her. Under any other circumstances, he would have been tempted to delay their morning appointment just because she was looking unfairly beautiful as the soft morning light reflected on her smooth skin. It felt as if she was doing it on purpose, that she was tempting him to make up for the time they lost the night before. Yet, her words and the uncomfortable throbbing in his temples made him more aware of their differences. Luke picked up the communication band, procured an earpiece from his trousers’ pocket. He keyed in the name of the appointed image manager. 

Anelle answered on the second ring. If she was annoyed at the couple who were taking their sweet time, it did not show in the way she said his name. “Your breakfast is on its way. Will you be quick? We have to wrap everything up today.”

He did not need her reminder. They plotted the itineraries, shaved-off unnecessary visits and talks, and had to come up with an efficient logistics plan in order to make it to the deadline. In the end, the tour would be a few days shorter than what was originally planned, but it would give Luke time to concentrate on actually running the state than being a figurehead that the public celebrated about. “Is there a first aid kit with your team?”

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” It doesn’t answer his question, but her anxiety was palpable even in the distance between them.

“No, I’m fine. Just a little hangover. Get me a painkiller with the food.”

“Is it not the same as --”

“It is not,” Luke answered with finality. Anelle was one of the persons who knew the defect that ails the crown prince. His migraine, though it was a common ailment and not at all life-threatening, was a handicap which stopped him from functioning in several occasions. Her sigh sounded like an exaggeration of the relief she might or might not have felt at that moment. Then again, she promised to slip pills for the headache. Luke cut the line without as much as a thank you. To Rhiane, he said, “Food is on its way. Please get dressed.”

The shirt he wore to the farm yesterday was still lying where he left it. As if to set an example, he picked it up and threw it over his head. “I will ask the staff to load your artworks into the vehicles. We are bringing all of it to the capital,” he said as he was pushing his arms into the armholes. “Your paintings will not embarrass me more than you did the other day.” It was when she exchanged her designer clothes for a commoner’s worn-out garments. “Besides, the whole world already knows that I have no artistic side. A third grader can paint better than I ever can. Go ahead and bring everything to the palace. Tell me if there are other belongings that you wish to bring as well.” As if she was leaving for the last time, never to return again. Maybe that was the case. Her hometown was far enough from the capital. It was doubtful that there would ever be a need for her to visit.