Of course. Princess Yania has a mission and Pembleton will ensure she arrives to speak at the UN safely

Yania left that very night, under the cover of darkness. Pembleton drove her in a nondescript car, unremarkable except for its tinted windows and non-functioning air conditioner.

"Take some water, Princess." Pembleton handed her an untouched sport bottle, and taking another for himself. "I'm sorry for the state of this vehicle, but I wanted something quickly that wasn't associated with your family. You must arrive at the air strip in secrecy."

"I understand, Mr. Pembleton. Thank you," Yania said, gratefully, drinking deeply.

A few moments passed, Yania looking at the stars out her window. It was late, and she yawned once, and then again.

"We are still almost an hour away, my dear," Pembleton said in his soft English accent. "You have time to sleep if you need to. It'll be better for you if you're rested by the time you reach the US."

"Thank you, Mr. Pembleton," the princess mumbled. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she leaned her head against the car window, drifting off to the rumbling engine of the warm car.

Her eyes opened in the tan room of a plane. Her head throbbed, and was full of cobwebs. She felt weightless, a symptom of her hazy state of mind combined with the feeling of flying in a small private plane. She was supposed to be on a plane, Yania knew, but she didn't remember boarding. Somebody was pressing a small hard object in her hand. A single pill. That somebody was the grandfatherly face of Mr. Pembleton, and Yania relaxed a bit.

"Your head hurts, Princess Yania. You are a bit ill. Please take this pill, it will help."

Her head did hurt. Yania was so foggy she didn't even feel it at first. Pembleton sat by her side, a glass of cool water in hand. He stroked her head. She indeed felt ill, and gratefully took the capsule, washing is down with water and laying back in her bed. The feeling of sickness slowly dissipated, but not the need for sleep or the fogginess. Still, with her head feeling better the princess at least felt able to sleep.

She had a nightmare where she was wrapped up in a ball, unable to move her legs. Mr. Pembleton was there, but his face was a cruel parody of itself, with black eyes and a gash of a smile on an unkind face. Her stomach felt bloated. Pembleton looked at her face and said, distantly, "Almost home, sweet princess," and planted too-red lips right on her mouth, invading the space with a wet kiss that seemed to climb down her throat. She felt a pressure on her arm that might have been a quick, sharp pain if it didn't feel so distant, like it was happening to another person. The terrible dream ended in inky blackness.