With less than a day to gather your possessions and say your goodbyes, you count your blessings that you own next to nothing.
"Good on you, fry," says Joan, sniffling into your shoulder. Gilbert claps you companionably on the back as the rest of the company murmur their congratulations (mixed with varyingly palpable degrees of envy from several sources).
There's no good way to relate the message that His Grace considers you a worthy royal gift without sounding boastful—so you resolve to embrace your inner braggart and crow as insufferably as you can. 'Tis worth all the eye-rolls you engender; when will you ever have another such chance?
Onward