The first warning was the measured click of high heels approaching behind him.
Then came perfume—warm flowers layered over the unmistakable sweetness of wine. A breath touched the back of Oskar's head, followed by two soft hands settling upon his shoulders.
A woman leaned against him.
Her breasts pressed warmly into the back of his neck and shoulder, their firmness unmistakable even through the fabric between them. Her lips brushed the edge of his ear.
"Long time no see, big boy."
Oskar went rigid.
He knew the voice at once.
Across the table, Franz Ferdinand leaned back with his wine glass, already delighted by whatever disaster had found his friend.
"Well," the Archduke said, "who is this, Oskar? Another one of your secret arrangements?"
Oskar ignored him.
The woman pressed closer and covered his eyes with both hands. Her breath spilled hot against his ear, scented with wine, while the points of her breasts pushed more firmly through her gown against him.
"Guess who," she whispered mischievously.
Oskar grumbled beneath his breath.
Her boldness stunned him. She had approached a foreign crown prince in full view of half Europe, pressed herself against him and begun playing with him as though they were alone.
His body responded before his judgment did.
Part of him wanted to see her immediately. Another part wondered whether, in a palace filled with suspicious smiles and concealed hostility, this woman behind him might be the only genuine ally Britain could offer him.
Before she could escalate matters further, Oskar reached up and closed one enormous hand around her slender wrist.
"I know it is you, Patricia," he said. "I have an excellent memory for beautiful things. Now stop."
She gave a small, delighted squeak when he pulled.
Rather than resist, Patricia yielded willingly, allowing him to draw her around the chair. Oskar brought her firmly to his side and kept hold of her hand, ready to rebuke her properly.
Then he looked at her, and the rebuke died before reaching his mouth.
Princess Patricia of Connaught was not quite the woman he remembered.
His gaze caught first upon the lower lines of her ivory gown. The silk followed the firm, pronounced curve of her backside closely enough to show that she had not spent the intervening years sitting idly in drawing rooms. Her body had been shaped through sustained exercise and deliberate care. The result was a nicely rounded backside, and an overall athletic figure, with enough strength beneath the softness to hold itself proudly.
The gown narrowed sharply around her waist before widening across full hips. Above them rose a fitted bodice holding a generous bosom high against the low neckline.
Her breasts were pale, round and soft-looking, their upper fullness plainly exposed. They moved slightly as she stepped closer, restrained but not completely stilled by the structure of the gown. The sight pulled Oskar's attention for longer than dignity permitted.
Above them rose the smooth line of her throat.
Her warm light-brown hair had been braided and pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, leaving that slender column fully exposed. Several loose strands framed her face, softening the formal arrangement with a suggestion of disorder that suited her far too well to be accidental.
Then he reached her face.
Patricia possessed the unmistakable refinement of royalty: high cheekbones, a straight nose, pale skin and full, expressive lips already curved with private amusement. Dark lashes framed clear blue eyes.
But, it was those eyes that had strangely changed most.
Within them the old mischief remained, but the innocence behind it was gone. In its place burned a naked hunger. Patricia looked at him as though she had spent years remembering their last meeting and had arrived determined not to lose him a second time.
And now as their eyes finally fully met, Patricia's breath caught. She drew her lower lip between her teeth, and the sudden rise of her chest pulled Oskar's gaze downward before he could stop it.
Patricia noticed.
A slow, triumphant smile curved her mouth as his eyes lingered upon the pale fullness above her bodice. Then her free hand settled over the enormous one still holding her wrist, her fingers stroking his knuckles with quiet encouragement.
Only then did Oskar notice that she wore no ring.
So history had not changed that much. Patricia remained unmarried—still beautiful, still unattached and, as far as society knew, untouched. The realization brought an unexpected trace of regret. A woman so healthy, desirable and full of life had apparently found no happiness in the years since they had parted.
Perhaps that explained the difference in her.
She was still Patricia, but no longer content to tease from a safe distance. There was something almost desperate beneath her boldness now, as though she feared that hesitation would cost her another chance.
Oskar forced his eyes back to her face.
"Princess," he said quietly, tightening his hold upon her wrist, "please control yourself and behave properly. You are making a scene."
Patricia brightened rather than sobered.
"I know," she answered. "And I have no intention of behaving—not now that I have finally found you again."
She sounded entirely sincere. That was what made her so confusing.
Her manner was unhinged, flirtatious and almost indecently direct, yet none of it felt false. She was not merely drunk and amusing herself with a foreign prince.
She wanted him.
Worse, she appeared to have arrived already convinced that he ought to want her in return.
Oskar became aware of the room around them.
Conversation continued, but its rhythm had changed. Heads were turning. Fans had risen. Several men appeared deeply interested in their drinks while watching over the rims of their glasses.
The British royal family had noticed. So had every competent diplomat in the palace.
Oskar rose.
Patricia was pulled briefly against him before he turned her toward the empty chair beside his. Her body yielded readily to his control. There was no violence in the movement and no need for it. His hand enclosed her wrist completely, and the difference in their strength made argument irrelevant.
"Sit down," he told her, "before your family suffers a collective seizure."
A small tremor passed through Patricia when his grip shifted.
"You have become terribly commanding," she murmured, visibly pleased. "I like it."
Oskar refused to answer.
He settled her into the chair with one broad hand upon her shoulder, then returned to his own seat.
Patricia immediately dragged herself closer.
Her skirts pressed against his leg beneath the table. Her knee angled openly toward his, while her shoulder rested near enough to touch his arm whenever she breathed. She looked up at him sweetly, though the hunger in her eyes ruined any pretence of innocence.
Franz Ferdinand watched as though an unexpectedly excellent play had begun for his private amusement.
While Oskar on the other hand hurriedly forced himself back into the role of a proper prince.
"My friend," he said, gesturing toward Patricia with strained formality, "allow me to present Princess Patricia of Connaught. We met several years ago under somewhat confusing circumstances. And no—she is not one of my secret arrangements."
Patricia recovered her royal composure with alarming ease. Remaining seated, she straightened and inclined her head with graceful formality, as though she had not been draped across Oskar's shoulders only moments before.
"Your Imperial and Royal Highness," she said. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard much of your friendship with Oskar—and of the growing closeness between your two empires."
Franz Ferdinand returned the greeting with a courteous inclination of his head.
"The pleasure is mine, Your Royal Highness."
Then his gaze moved between her and Oskar, amusement returning to his eyes.
"Any woman capable of shocking this man into silence has earned my immediate respect. Bullets, bombs and knives of assassins appear to have accomplished considerably less than your hands upon his shoulders."
Patricia covered her mouth and laughed softly.
Oskar did not.
Determined to drag the encounter back toward respectable conversation, he turned to her.
"So, Princess—what brings you here? And how has life treated you?"
Patricia dismissed the question as though it were too dull to deserve an answer.
Seated beside him, she seemed even more conscious of his body than before. Her gaze wandered openly across his immense shoulders and chest. She pressed closer until her arm rested against his, then adjusted the front of her gown with a small, deliberate movement that lifted her breasts higher within the bodice.
"I came to see you, obviously," she said. "You are the reason I took so long to arrive. For I could not decide what to wear."
She leaned back just enough to display herself more fully.
"But now that I am here—tell me honestly, what do you think? I have worked very hard these past few years. There is a Pumpworld gym in London, you know."
Oskar was not certain what she expected him to compliment.
The gown?
The trained, curving body contained within it?
Or the fact that she had apparently prepared both with him specifically in mind?
His attention settled instead upon the fine gold chain around her neck.
A crucifix hung from it.
The small figure of Christ had slipped halfway into the deep valley between her breasts, nearly lost within the soft expanse of milky-white skin surrounding it.
Patricia noticed where he was looking.
She placed one hand against her chest and struck a deliberate pose, presenting both the necklace and everything beneath it.
"Do you like it?"
Her smile became almost girlish despite the indecency of the display.
"I chose all of it for you."
Oskar looked down again.
He remained uncertain whether all of it meant the necklace, the gown, her body—or the entire scandalous performance.
The crucified Christ appeared to be drowning peacefully in an ocean of pale cleavage.
Patricia pressed her chest more firmly against Oskar's arm while her fingers tightened around his sleeve. She drew a deeper breath, and the little cross sank farther into the softness between her breasts.
Oskar swallowed.
Then, acting before judgment could intervene, he reached toward her.
His fingers brushed the warm skin above her bodice and pressed slightly into the yielding flesh as he searched for the trapped pendant. Patricia inhaled sharply, her eyes widening with delighted surprise.
Oskar drew the crucifix free and settled it properly against her chest.
The movement disturbed her breasts, sending a soft tremor through them. Almost immediately, the cross began slipping downward again.
Only then did Oskar realize where his hand had been.
He withdrew at once and turned his face aside.
Patricia sat flushed and breathless, her lips parted and her blue eyes bright with satisfaction.
Across the table, Franz Ferdinand stared at them with his mouth nearly open, temporarily deprived even of sarcasm.
"Your necklace is very fine," Oskar said, forcing dignity back into his voice. "Although I suspect Our Lord may require rescue."
Patricia followed his gaze and burst into delighted laughter. She struck Oskar playfully upon the shoulder.
"Do not worry. He has endured worse."
Her smile sharpened.
"Although you are welcome to try rescuing him again."
Oskar swallowed once more and fixed his attention firmly upon the banquet table.
"The food here is excellent."
Patricia laughed, plucked a grape from a nearby bowl and slipped it between her lips.
"Indeed."
Ferdinand drank more wine.
Oskar signalled for a servant and ordered additional food, wine for the Archduke and apple juice for himself. The three of them remained together in an awkward arrangement: Ferdinand entertained, Oskar rigidly attempting to behave, and Patricia pressed close enough that their legs remained in contact beneath the table.
Behind them, the ballroom continued breathing.
Music swelled and receded. Silverware touched porcelain. Laughter rose and fell beneath the chandeliers.
Yet a different current had begun moving through the room.
Heads turned.
Fans lifted.
Men pretended not to notice and very obviously did.
The British royal family watched with careful stillness.
Patricia's father, Prince Arthur—the fifth son of Queen Victoria—did not move. Nor did her mother, Princess Louise Margaret of Prussia, a Hohenzollern by birth and therefore painfully aware of precisely what Oskar represented.
Neither intervened.
They knew Patricia well enough to understand that public opposition would only harden her resolve. Dragging a British princess away from a German crown prince before half the diplomatic world would create a scandal of its own.
There would be words later, sharp ones, private ones, but for now they watched.
The foreign ambassadors watched as well, though with less embarrassment and considerably more calculation.
Seeing Oskar and Franz Ferdinand seated together like old friends was unsettling enough. Their ease suggested something deeper than an alliance of necessity. It was familiarity, trust and personal loyalty—the sort of connection diplomacy could encourage but never manufacture.
Now a British princess had joined them.
Patricia possessed no official office, military command or great independent fortune. Yet presence itself carried power in rooms such as this. For a brief moment, some observers wondered whether her behaviour signalled a quiet warming between Britain and Germany.
Most dismissed the possibility almost immediately.
Patricia was known as a rogue spirit: independent, wilful and inclined to resist whatever society expected of her. Some whispered that she sympathized with the women's movement. Others went further and associated her with the suffragettes.
Earlier that evening, Oskar had refused nearly every dance offered to him and allowed most conversations to last only a few polite minutes. Princes, ministers and celebrated beauties alike had struggled to hold his attention.
Now Princess Patricia sat pressed against his side as though the place had always belonged to her. One knee rested against his beneath the table, and her hand was rarely far from his sleeve. More tellingly, Oskar had neither dismissed her nor made any serious attempt to move away.
To the watching ballroom, that revealed more than any formal declaration could have done.
Back at the table, however, the mood was considerably less certain.
An awkward silence settled between the three of them. Oskar drank his apple juice and devoted an absurd degree of concentration to a small pastry, determined not to look at Patricia. Every brush of her leg and every subtle shift of her body was already provoking reactions he had no intention of displaying before half the royal houses of Europe.
Patricia ate slowly beside him, glancing between her plate and Oskar with quiet calculation. Her eyes repeatedly travelled from his face to the breadth of his chest, as though she were calmly deciding how best to attack what remained of his composure.
Franz Ferdinand observed them both over the rim of his glass.
Recognizing that his friend required rescuing—or at least desperately needed another subject—the Archduke finally broke the silence. The familiar smile returned to his face, the one he wore whenever life provided scandal without requiring him to create it himself.
"Well, Your Royal Highness," he said, raising his glass toward Patricia, "thanks to you, the evening has finally become truly worthwhile."
Patricia acknowledged him with perfect royal grace, somehow maintaining the appearance of propriety while sitting so close to Oskar that their legs remained pressed together beneath the table.
The Archduke's curiosity soon overcame what remained of his manners.
"Now tell me," he said, glancing between them, "how is it that the two of you already know one another so intimately?"
Oskar rubbed one hand across his face.
"She ambushed me at my coming-of-age ball. The twenty-seventh of July, 1908. I remember the date because I remember the confusion."
"A fine year," Ferdinand observed.
Patricia reached for Oskar's hand as though reclaiming something that had always belonged to her.
"I remember every moment," she said. "I was the first woman to dance with you that evening. I never forgot it."
Her fingers closed around his.
"And I have regretted being forced to leave ever since."
She tilted her head and studied him openly.
"Had I remained, perhaps you would have chosen me instead of that Bavarian princess—Gundelinde."
Her smile sharpened.
"Although, as you can see, I am still available."
Oskar had just raised his glass of apple juice.
He sprayed half of it across the table.
Franz Ferdinand's eyebrows climbed.
"Oh?"
Patricia produced a white handkerchief almost instantly and began dabbing Oskar's coat with exaggerated tenderness.
"My goodness. Look at the mess you have made."
Oskar set down the glass and stared at her.
"What are you talking about? I thought you disliked me."
Her hand stilled against Oskar's chest.
For a moment, the teasing fell away. Patricia looked up at him with such painful sincerity that he immediately wondered whether he had misunderstood everything between them.
"I am sorry you believed that," she said. "The ambassador recalled me. I had been sent to discover whether you were interested, and when you appeared indifferent, I was told there was no reason for me to remain."
She hesitated, then continued more softly.
"But that no longer matters. We are together again, and this time we have time to speak properly—to discover who the other has become."
Before Oskar could answer, Patricia took his hand between both of hers.
Her attention settled upon the heavy gold band encircling his finger.
The sight of it calmed him almost at once. Whatever confusion Patricia had stirred within him receded beneath a familiar warmth. The ring was not merely jewellery. It was the visible promise of the household waiting for him in Germany—the women who loved him, the children who climbed over him, and the life he had built around them.
The band was broader than an ordinary wedding ring, large enough to suit Oskar's hand and to carry an inscription across its outer surface. Flowing letters wound around the gold like delicate tongues of flame, based upon an ancient Germanic hand revived and refined for the New Dawn. To most observers it appeared strange and almost elven, but woven among the symbols were three unmistakable names:
Tanya, Anna, Gundelinde. Each was separated by a tiny Radiant Cross.
Patricia turned the ring slowly beneath the light. A trace of jealousy entered her expression despite her attempt to hide it.
"You already have three wives," she murmured. "Yet they gave you only one ring. Should you not be wearing three?"
"That would be rather impractical."
Oskar rotated the band so that she and Ferdinand could examine the full inscription.
"This is the master ring of the household. My wives each wear a smaller band bearing their own name, mine, and part of the vow. This one carries all three names and the vow in full."
Patricia's fingers paused over Gundelinde's name.
"And you never expected to need another?"
"Honestly, no. I had never considered covering my hand in rings—or taking another wife. Everything already belonged upon this one."
Franz Ferdinand, who had noticed the band before but never examined it closely, leaned across the table with genuine interest.
"What does the inscription say?"
Oskar looked down at the gold with quiet affection and read the words aloud.
"Three rings for the brides, one ring for the lord; one hand to guard them, one hearth to gather them. By love they are joined, by duty made strong; beneath the New Dawn, four souls become one."
Ferdinand's eyebrows rose.
"One ring binding the whole household."
"That was the intention." Pride warmed Oskar's voice. "A new form of marriage deserved a new symbol. The Church may eventually adopt the custom—smaller rings for the wives, and one greater ring carrying every name and the complete vow."
"Practical, memorable and suitably dramatic," Ferdinand said. "Very much your work."
Oskar smiled.
"I thought it was rather good."
Patricia continued tracing the inscription. For a moment she appeared almost solemn, contemplating the three women whose names already encircled his finger.
Then her eyes narrowed with fresh mischief.
"The ring is beautiful," she said, turning his hand beneath the light. "Though I find the hand wearing it far more impressive."
Her thumb traced one of Oskar's fingers from the heavy knuckle to its tip.
"You have such long, thick, hard fingers," she murmured. "And attached to arms—and a body—powerful enough to handle nearly anything."
Heat climbed beneath Oskar's collar.
Patricia looked up through her lashes, her smile turning openly indecent.
"Surely you do not expect me to believe that three willing wives are enough to keep hands like these occupied."
Her thumb stroked his finger once more.
"I should very much like to discover what they might do with a fourth."
Franz Ferdinand spat wine across his plate.
Oskar went rigid. His body reacted with humiliating speed, while perspiration gathered beneath his collar and he prayed that no one beyond their table had heard her.
"Princess," he said in a low voice, "what in God's name are you saying? That is wildly inappropriate. Please control yourself."
Even Ferdinand had fallen silent. Patricia's implication had crossed far beyond the playful impropriety he had been enjoying.
Patricia stared at Oskar.
Then, as abruptly as lightning splitting a clear sky, her entire manner changed.
She released his hand and drew back, both palms rising to her chest as though she had only just understood the enormity of what she had said. Shock passed across her face, followed by embarrassment and something far more wounded.
"Oh—no. Oskar, I did not mean to offend you."
Her voice trembled.
"I merely thought that, because you are so at ease with women, perhaps I could be honest with you. I have never been with anyone. I thought you might not object to having me beside you—even if only as a mistress."
The last word emerged quietly.
"But I see that you are like the others after all."
Bitterness entered her voice.
"You prefer women who are useful, quiet and agreeable. Women who never speak too boldly and pretend to be innocent things without desires of their own."
She gave a small, wounded nod.
"Very well. I understand."
Oskar's breath caught.
"Wait. No—that is not what I meant."
Patricia looked away, blinking rapidly while pride warred with apparent hurt. Around them, the banquet continued—music swelling, laughter drifting beneath the chandeliers—but the space around their table had suddenly become fragile.
Franz Ferdinand watched in silence.
His amusement had vanished. Something about the speed and perfection of Patricia's wounded retreat had sharpened his attention.
"No," she said quietly. "It is quite all right."
She rose and smoothed her skirts with hands that appeared suddenly uncertain.
"I understand."
Turning toward Ferdinand, she inclined her head.
"Your Imperial and Royal Highness, forgive me. I did not intend to intrude."
She stepped away.
Oskar, utterly confused and convinced that he had wounded a beautiful woman who had trusted him, moved without thinking.
His hand closed around hers.
"Wait."
Patricia stopped, and for one heartbeat, unseen by Oskar, satisfaction flashed across her face—quick, bright and almost mischievous.
Then it disappeared.
"No, Patricia," he said more gently. "I did not mean it that way."
He guided her back toward the chair. He did not force her, but the movement possessed the inevitable certainty of his strength.
"Sit down, please. Let us speak properly."
Patricia hesitated for exactly as long as wounded pride required.
Then she sat.
Oskar exhaled and rubbed one hand across his face.
"Your boldness surprised me. That is all. You are…" He searched awkwardly for words that would not worsen matters. "Very pleasing to look upon. Your gown suits you. Your voice is pleasant. And your company is not unwelcome."
Ferdinand's eyebrow rose steadily.
Oskar pressed on.
"Having a lady at the table is certainly preferable to spending the entire evening alone with this drunken Austrian. So stay."
Patricia brightened almost instantly, like sunlight breaking through a storm.
"Oh. In that case…"
She leaned closer again, though now with studied comfort rather than open provocation.
"You do not object to women speaking honestly, then?"
Oskar looked at her cautiously.
"No."
"And you support women's rights?"
Ferdinand nearly laughed into his wine.
Patricia continued before Oskar could answer.
"Women have surely earned the right to vote, make decisions and speak their minds without male permission."
Oskar blinked.
"What? No. I did not say that."
Patricia tilted her head.
"I am a prince with three wives," Oskar said bluntly. "If everyone in my household attempted to command everything, it would collapse within a week. There must be order between men and women—a natural law, with responsibilities belonging to each. I have no intention of abandoning that because fashionable people have discovered a new slogan."
Ferdinand barked a laugh and struck the table approvingly.
"Well said, my man."
Patricia frowned and slapped Oskar lightly upon the shoulder.
"Hmph. Men. You are all controlling brutes."
Yet she did not move away.
She folded her hands primly in her lap and turned her face aside in exaggerated displeasure.
A moment later, she flinched when Oskar's immense palm settled gently upon her leg.
"Do not be angry," he said. "I respect women. Especially those under my protection."
Patricia glanced down at his hand, which covered a considerable portion of her thigh even through the gown.
Oskar continued, more earnestly.
"I love my women. Deeply. I consider it my duty to carry the heaviest burdens so they need not. I provide safety, order and certainty. In return, they possess the freedom to pursue what brings them happiness without being crushed beneath responsibilities I am strong enough to bear."
Patricia's posture softened.
She looked up, searching his face for mockery and finding none.
"That is a very strange understanding of freedom."
"Perhaps."
"And you truly believe it?"
"It has worked for us."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Oskar cleared his throat and removed his hand from her leg before the gesture became another diplomatic incident.
"You wished to discuss something else, did you not?"
Patricia's eyes brightened at once, her wounded dignity vanishing almost as quickly as it had appeared.
"Oh, yes—Africa." She leaned forward eagerly. "Is it true that you swam among sharks as though you had been born in the sea?"
"Not quite," Oskar replied. "I jumped from the ship and found them waiting."
Patricia smiled, expecting some exaggeration.
Oskar continued calmly.
"One reef shark attacked me, so I caught it and broke its spine. A larger bull shark came for the blood. I punched it in the snout until it left."
Franz Ferdinand slowly lowered his glass.
"You punched a shark?"
"Twice."
Patricia stared at him.
"And the smaller one?"
"I ate part of it raw when I reached shore. Later, I hunted several more for Southern Bauxi Town. We cooked those and fed them to the workers."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
They had heard the stories. They had seen the photographs and watched the moving pictures of Oskar and Karl crossing the African wilderness. Yet hearing him describe the impossible so casually made it somehow more absurd—and more believable.
Patricia broke first, laughing in open disbelief.
"You killed a shark with your hands, punched another, and then ate the first one?"
"I was hungry."
Franz Ferdinand laughed and raised his glass.
"My friend, I have never been more grateful that you are on my side."
Patricia pressed closer to Oskar, still laughing.
"You are completely absurd."
"Absurdly dangerous," Ferdinand corrected.
For one brief moment, the three of them leaned together over the table, their laughter softening the hard formality of the ballroom.
Then Ferdinand's curiosity spoiled it.
"There is something else I have been meaning to ask," he said, lowering his voice. "Just between the three of us—what precisely is happening between you and Cecilie?"
Oskar stiffened.
"I heard you entered Schwerin Castle yourself and carried her out," Ferdinand continued. "One child followed at your side while she held another in her arms."
His brow rose.
"The infant—was she yours?"
Patricia's laughter stopped immediately.
"What?"
She turned toward Oskar with wide eyes.
"Cecilie is your lover as well? You have a child with her? What is the baby's name?"
Oskar opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was no graceful answer, and Ferdinand had ensured there could be no evasive one either.
"Cecilie is not my lover," he said quickly. "The child—Elisara—is mine, yes, but it was not planned."
Patricia continued staring.
Oskar ran a hand through his hair.
"She was isolated, frightened and uncertain of what would happen to her or her children if her husband—or her father—could no longer protect them. She wanted security. Something binding her future to mine."
He caught himself before saying more.
"And no, I will not explain what might happen to my brother or to her father. It was a moment, or well several moments of weakness between two frightened human beings. Nothing more needs to be said."
Patricia regarded him with open scandal for several seconds.
Then, unexpectedly, her expression softened.
"That is terribly romantic."
Franz Ferdinand responded by taking a long drink of wine.
When he finally lowered the glass, he regarded Oskar with weary amusement.
"Your life is certainly colourful, my man."
Patricia slapped Oskar lightly upon the shoulder.
"You marched into a castle and carried her away like a knight from a legend. Tell me everything."
Oskar had barely begun forming an answer when a sharp crack sounded beneath the table.
The tip of a wooden walking stick had struck the leg of Patricia's chair.
"Move, young lady."
The voice was crisp, unmistakable and edged with steel.
Patricia froze.
Oskar looked up and felt something cold settle inside his chest.
Queen Alexandra stood beside them, one hand resting upon her cane.
She was sixty-five, slight in frame and stiff through one leg from an illness suffered in childhood. At first glance, she might have appeared almost fragile. Her silvering hair had been arranged with ruthless precision, and years of grief, pain and royal discipline had drawn fine severity across her face.
Yet her presence filled the space around the table like winter entering an open room.
Her dislike of Germany was well known.
"You are sitting far too close to this man," she told Patricia, tapping the chair again. "Show some decency."
For once, Patricia did not argue.
She rose immediately, cheeks burning, and moved around to the chair beside Ferdinand. Alexandra took the vacated place with deliberate finality, seating herself next to Oskar as though claiming territory abandoned by an undisciplined subordinate.
The atmosphere changed at once.
Nearby conversations faltered, and several guests who had been pretending not to watch abandoned the pretence entirely.
Alexandra turned her pale, assessing eyes upon Oskar.
"Well?" she asked. "Have you anything to say for yourself, young man?"
For a moment, Oskar merely studied her.
Beside him, she seemed almost impossibly small. Yet he had been raised among monarchs and generals and knew that size was only one form of power. This woman possessed another.
He inclined his head immediately.
"Your Majesty."
The title alone shifted the mood.
Without waiting to be prompted, Oskar turned toward a nearby footman and requested coffee, tea and fresh cups for the table. The servant blinked, then hurried away.
Alexandra watched Oskar with narrowed eyes.
She distrusted everything about him: his size, his reputation, his household, his religion and the industrial power gathering behind his name. She appeared particularly unimpressed by the sight of Patricia sitting nearby with flushed cheeks and the satisfied expression of a woman who had just been physically removed from temptation but not persuaded to regret it.
The tray arrived.
Before the footman could serve them, Oskar took the coffee pot himself.
That made Alexandra pause.
He poured carefully, first for her, then for himself, Patricia and Ferdinand. There was no theatrical flourish in the gesture. When he had finished, he slid Alexandra's cup toward her with both hands.
"The youngest person at the table should serve his elders first," he said. "Especially when they are family, however distant."
Alexandra's eyes sharpened.
"Family?"
"However distant," Oskar repeated. "And however strained the politics between us may become."
She studied him for a moment, no longer merely hostile but calculating.
Then she looked down at her coffee.
"No sugar?"
The table went still.
The footman paled as though an international crisis had somehow become his responsibility.
Oskar paused.
"My mistake."
He reached for the sugar bowl and dropped one cube into her cup.
Alexandra continued watching him.
A second followed.
Still nothing.
Oskar added a third, then a fourth.
Patricia bit her lip to keep from laughing. Ferdinand made no effort to conceal his fascination.
Oskar added a fifth.
"That will do," Alexandra said.
He set down the bowl.
She stirred the coffee, took a measured sip and offered no immediate reaction.
"Coffee," she said at last.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I remembered."
One of her brows rose slightly.
"I have never cared greatly for tea. Coffee keeps the mind alert—particularly when one is surrounded by unpleasant surprises."
"I have heard that you value routine," Oskar replied. "And that you are particularly devoted to your animals."
That caught her attention.
Her eyes snapped toward him.
"So you have done your reading."
"I try to understand the people I may be required to disappoint."
Ferdinand covered a smile with his glass.
Oskar continued before Alexandra could answer.
"I was pleased to hear that the equipment supplied by AngelWorks proved useful."
Her mouth tightened.
"I was considerably less pleased when I discovered it was German."
"But not displeased with its performance."
Alexandra regarded him coldly.
"It is adequate."
Ferdinand seized the opening.
"My hunting dogs use AngelWorks equipment exclusively, Your Majesty. Excellent workmanship. Very durable."
Alexandra turned her gaze upon him without enthusiasm.
Patricia added, rather more softly, "They truly are very good."
Alexandra ignored her and continued addressing Ferdinand.
"A considerable portion of the British aristocracy now uses their leads, harnesses and training collars. They have proven reliable."
She paused, visibly irritated by the necessity of admitting anything further.
"The animal clothing is equally serviceable. Coats, wraps and protective pieces. My own animals seem to prefer them."
Only then did she glance at Oskar.
"They are warm and regrettably well made. I will not deny that the workmanship is sound."
Oskar gave a short, awkward laugh.
"It is not every day that a man my size finds himself designing coats for dogs."
For the briefest moment, something resembling reluctant amusement touched the edge of Alexandra's expression.
Then it disappeared.
"Do not misunderstand me," she said. "I do not trust you. I do not approve of your domestic arrangements, your religion or the manner in which young women throw themselves at foreign princes."
Her eyes flicked toward Patricia, who attempted to appear fascinated by a grape.
"Especially German princes," Alexandra continued, "whose country drove the Danes from their own lands."
Oskar's posture hardened.
"That was not my doing. I opposed the harshest measures. Many Danes remained, accepted German citizenship, learned the language and built lives within the Empire."
"Excuses," Alexandra replied calmly. "That is what every conquering nation calls the explanations offered afterward."
Oskar held her gaze but did not answer.
After a moment, Alexandra lifted her cup again.
"Nevertheless, I recognize respect when it is shown to me."
Oskar could not decide whether the statement was praise or warning.
It was probably both.
Alexandra drank with unhurried composure.
"You would do well to remember that Britain is watching you," she said. "Your nation. Your industries. Your fleet. Your ambitions."
Her pale eyes rose to meet his.
"You walk a narrow boundary between what Britain will tolerate and what it will consider unacceptable."
A chill moved down Oskar's spine.
There was no theatrical anger in her voice. Alexandra spoke of hostility and war as though they were levers resting beneath her hand—things to be moved when necessary and without hesitation.
"I understand," he replied carefully. "Germany seeks only to protect its interests. We have no desire for further expansion at Britain's expense."
Alexandra regarded him over the rim of her cup.
"We shall see."
Then, as though the weight of that sentence required no further discussion, she inclined her head toward the others.
"You three were laughing when I approached. Enlighten me."
Her gaze returned to Oskar.
"And while you are doing so, tell me how your father fares. Willy has always been terribly excitable."
The tension loosened slightly.
It did not disappear. It merely withdrew far enough to allow everyone at the table to breathe again.
Conversation resumed. Plates were replenished, Ferdinand's wine was replaced, and cool apple juice appeared for Oskar. Questions followed—about Germany, Africa, the Kaiser and the increasingly complicated web of royal family history joining nearly everyone in the palace.
Oskar answered what he could, deflected what he must and endured the rest.
Old recollections were drawn out like heavy tapestries: threadbare in places, rich in others and burdened by the accumulated resentments of generations. Alexandra spoke with the authority of someone who had known Europe before Oskar was born and had never entirely forgiven Germany for the shape it had taken.
Eventually, Oskar felt his restraint beginning to fray.
Another hour might produce an error that no amount of diplomacy could repair.
At last, he rose.
"You must excuse me," he said, first to Alexandra and then to Ferdinand.
His gaze rested briefly upon Patricia.
"I find myself unusually tired."
He did not wait for anyone to grant permission.
Buckingham Palace opened before him in long, pale corridors illuminated by chandeliers dimmed for mourning. His boots sounded softly against the marble as he walked alone, while the music and conversation of the banquet faded behind him.
For a time, there was only silence.
Then a shadow slipped from a side passage.
Patricia followed.
A shawl had been drawn around her shoulders, and her footsteps were light and deliberate. Mischief shone in her eyes, accompanied by something considerably more dangerous.
She kept her distance at first. Staying quiet, being careful, and following him with scandalous purpose.