"There is nothing crazy about that tradition," Rhiane asserted definitely when he related how he used to visit his father's grave to drink and talk about his life. While she was unwilling to admit it aloud, she thought it was much more brave (and healthy) than her cowardly refusal to visit the burial sites of her own family, as if she were running from the reality of their deaths, terrified to deal with the lingering guilt, trauma, and grief. Confessing as much felt like a step too far- especially with their stoically silent guard audience- and so she abstained from further commentary. It wasn't as if Luke particularly cared what she thought of his actions or beliefs. He had proved on numerous occasions that the only person he truly answered to was himself.

Torn between openly empathizing with him or trying to keep up her facade of strength, she was relieved when he allowed the subject to be changed, and was genuinely surprised at his suggestion of having one of her paintings chosen as a gift for Callie. The princess elect opened her mouth to object that he needed to put in more effort to find something to his sister's liking, but her words failed to materialize beyond internal thoughts. Sending the teenager one of her pieces, even if they were amateur by her own assessment, was not all that different from him perusing the offerings of a shop and shipping some home. Rhiane had herself purchased artwork during their tour as presents for others. It would be beyond hypocritical for her to claim that she was free to do so, but if he did the same it was not considerate or thoughtful enough. Perhaps if he tried to delegate, asking that red-haired witch to throw together a care package, then she would have the basis for honest critique.

Quietly she mulled over the possibility. Most of her reluctance in having her paintings in the palace was because she believed it would be just another avenue with which she'd be attacked. As a low-born interloper that was already barely tolerated by the very people that needed her, she did not want to expose any vulnerabilities, or give them fuel for the figurative flame. When it came to a physical external threat Luke had shown he would protect her, but socially and emotionally it was a gamble. In private he could be kind and sweet, but in the presence of others he was less reliable as they increased in number and stature. Rhiane would concede he had defended her at the dinner party, but that was still a far cry from shielding her from the opinions of a robust staff of aristocratic servants, friends, royal advisors, or his mother should they come across her impressionist expressions.

"What do you think, Tobias?" she called out. "I want another opinion. Do you think it would cause trouble if Callie was given one of my paintings?" Luke was so fond of the princess she was confident he wouldn't see the faults in the young woman... at least not while he had an ulterior motive in his mind. Nolan was intensely loyal to Luke alone, which bound him to echo his sentiments, so the cousin of the heir was the best hope she had for someone at least minimally less biased.

Tempting as it was to sabotage his cocky relative, Tobias liked Callie more than he held a grudge against her brother. While everyone else was condescending, eager to order him around, or belittle him for being bound by blood to the wrong side of the kingdom's lineage, she was warm, friendly, and congenial. In a single day she treated him with more respect than Luke did in a year or more. No one else was better equipped to appreciate Rhiane's artwork, in his estimation, and would so vigorously advocate on its behalf. Though they had the same two parents, the siblings shut down dissidence in opposing ways: the elder by being so cruelly authoritative he could not be questioned, the younger by making anyone who would argue feel like the most horrific villain to ever set foot on Earth.

"Princess Callista would be an excellent recipient," he succinctly replied without any elaboration as to how he arrived at his conclusion.

"After we get back we can look at them together," the former farmer promised, "if you really think she'd like the style. You're not getting out of writing her a note to go with it, though. If you write her a little something on the back, or a card, she'd cherish it forever," she pointed out, certain of the veracity of her statement. It had not gone unnoticed how heavily he relied on his device or subordinates to ferry and deliver messages. Picking up a pen, an actual pen, and scribbling out any contrite message would be more precious than having a typed, digital, impersonal version. Again she was reminded of what of Edwin's things she found more valuable after his passing. Callie had no reason to be so obsessively sentimental, but time was relentless in its onward march, and eventually they would find themselves separated from one another by circumstances. Tactile proof of their loving relationship would endure longer than their youth or health.