Oskar had taken no more than two steps when the room erupted behind him.
"Your Highness!"
Elise's voice cracked with panic.
Then Patricia shouted over her, closer and far more desperate.
"Oskar—please! Do not leave me!"
He stopped—not because he intended to listen, but because Patricia collided with his back before he could take another step.
Her forehead struck between his shoulder blades. Her bare breasts pressed warmly against him as both arms wrapped around his waist with desperate force. She was too small to reach much higher, yet her fingers dug into his skin as though she feared he might disappear the moment she loosened her grip.
There was nothing seductive or theatrical about it now.
This was panic.
"I am sorry," she rushed out. "I understand that you are angry. You have every right to be—about Elise, about what she did, about all of it."
Her cheek rested against his back, warm and trembling. She barely reached the centre of his torso, yet the desperation in her embrace made her feel strangely heavy.
"But please," she continued, struggling for breath. "You must understand. I had Elise assigned to you because I thought she would keep everything under control."
Oskar closed his eyes.
"Princess," he warned quietly.
Patricia either did not hear him or refused to stop.
"I was afraid," she admitted. "Afraid that they would surround you with beautiful maids and that something might happen."
She swallowed.
"Tanya and Anna were maids once, were they not?"
That landed.
Something sour twisted inside Oskar's chest.
So that was how his life appeared from the outside.
"I thought you might fall into old habits," Patricia continued, plainly mortified by her own words. "Sleeping with maids. Making… children with them. I did not wish to imagine it, but—"
Despite everything, Oskar almost laughed.
Is that truly my reputation now? That I cannot be left alone with a household staff without increasing the population?
His gaze drifted toward Elise.
The maid remained near the bed with her hands clasped nervously before her. Her honey-blonde hair hung loose over her shoulders, and her pale eyes watched him with guilt, fear and a clear desire to run forward and embrace him as Patricia had done.
She looked tiny.
Soft.
Painfully appealing.
And, if Oskar were being brutally honest, extremely tempting.
Well. Shit.
That realization did nothing to improve his mood.
"I trusted Elise," Patricia said quickly. "I believed she would restrain herself. I thought she would prevent the others from approaching you—not become worse than all of them."
Oskar's eyes opened.
"And instead," Patricia whispered, her voice breaking, "I made everything worse. I know that now. I never meant to spy upon you. I only wanted to know that you were safe—that no other woman touched you."
She hesitated.
Her next words emerged much more quietly.
"Except me."
That was enough.
Oskar caught one of her hands and guided her around until she stood before him.
Patricia's head barely reached the middle of his chest. She stared upward with glassy blue eyes while her body remained pressed against him, her pale skin warm against the hard planes of his torso.
The difference between them was almost absurd. Oskar towered over her like a wall, broad and nearly naked, while Patricia clung to him as though he were the only solid thing remaining in her world.
His hands settled around her upper arms—not painfully, but firmly enough to make her still.
"Princess Patricia," he said, each word precise, "let us be absolutely clear about one thing."
His icy gaze held hers.
"You do not own me."
The words struck like cold water.
Patricia went rigid.
"I—I did not mean—"
"Stop."
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
Her mouth closed immediately.
Behind him, Elise took an uncertain step forward, stopping just short of touching his arm. She looked between them with fear etched across her delicate face, clearly torn between guilt and the desire to comfort him.
Oskar noticed.
That was partly why he did not simply break away and order them both into the corridor. Patricia remained against his chest, while Elise stood close enough that one careless movement from him might knock her to the floor.
Both women were small.
Fragile.
Far easier to hurt than they appeared to understand.
Oskar restrained himself through force of will. He did not wish to injure them—physically or otherwise. He wanted this madness concluded so they could return to whatever lives they had possessed before he entered them.
Yet as he held Patricia and felt the warmth of her body, another thought began to take shape.
Not desire.
Calculation.
He shifted his attention and studied her not as a beautiful woman or an immediate problem, but as what she also happened to be:
A British princess.
"Tell me something," he said quietly.
Patricia blinked.
"What?"
"You said that a child of ours might possess a claim to the British throne."
She nodded hesitantly.
Oskar lowered his voice as though they were discussing a conspiracy rather than an absurd romantic proposal.
"How far from the throne are you, exactly?"
The question cut through the room.
Patricia stared at him, genuinely confused.
"I—what?"
Elise inhaled sharply.
Her pale eyes brightened with sudden and completely unhelpful enthusiasm. She straightened as though a tutor had called upon her in a classroom.
"Somewhere in the thirties, Your Highness," she answered quickly. "Thirty-fifth, I think. Her father is Queen Victoria's third son, so the claim is not particularly strong—but it exists."
Patricia turned toward her.
"Elise—"
"And technically, her children would possess a claim as well," Elise continued. "Even without a recognized marriage."
She frowned in thought.
"Of course, reaching the throne would probably require a coup. Parliament would object, and overthrowing the government would not be terribly popular. But conquest would establish its own legality. The law of force, as it were."
Silence filled the chamber.
Oskar stared at the maid who had just suggested overthrowing her own government with the cheerful practicality of someone explaining laundry arrangements.
Elise finally noticed the expressions directed at her.
She shrank slightly and clasped her hands together.
"Or—well—Her Royal Highness is still politically valuable," she added weakly. "And she is very good at golf, if that helps."
Oskar laughed once.
Quietly.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
His mind began moving despite his better judgment.
George V.
The Royal Navy's demonstration.
Britain's continuing hostility toward Germany—and toward Oskar personally.
In the history he remembered, slightly more than four years remained before Sarajevo set Europe alight. Four years sounded like time to ordinary people.
To Oskar, it was almost nothing.
Here, however, stood a British princess with a distant but legitimate place within the succession. Her children would carry British royal blood alongside German imperial blood. Under normal circumstances, that connection would mean almost nothing.
But history rarely remained normal once nations began collapsing.
Patricia was not a powerful card.
She might not even be a useful one.
But she was a card.
Oskar found the thought deeply distasteful. He had improved medicine, infant care and public safety across much of Europe. His books had taught ordinary people how to treat wounds, feed children safely and recognize practices that killed infants through ignorance rather than cruelty. AngelWorks products had reduced injuries and improved daily life in countries that still regarded Germany with suspicion.
None of it guaranteed peace.
Good works did not erase rivalry. Gratitude did not outweigh fear, and foreign governments would not allow Germany to rise merely because Oskar had saved some of their citizens.
If war came, Patricia might become leverage—something capable of making Britain hesitate, if only for a moment.
Or, in the most grotesquely dynastic version of the idea, she might bear children whose blood connected Berlin to the British Crown.
The possibilities were distant, dangerous and absurd.
But they existed.
Patricia had gone pale.
"I do not understand," she whispered. "Why does my place in the succession matter to you?"
Oskar returned his attention to her.
"Because you are not merely throwing yourself at a man," he said slowly. "You are throwing yourself into something that could alter—or shatter—history."
She stared at him.
Then her expression hardened with the same stubbornness that had carried her into his room.
"I do not care," she said quietly. "I do not belong here. I never have. I do not fit into the life they chose for me, and you know that."
She pressed herself closer.
Without thinking, Oskar's arms closed around her.
Elise hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward as well. She slipped beneath one of his arms, and suddenly both women were held against him—Patricia on one side, Elise on the other.
A moment earlier, he had considered them insane.
Now he felt only conflicted.
Reckless or not, they were two determined British women declaring themselves loyal to him.
Damn it, that felt better than it should have.
Both looked up expectantly.
"If you took me with you," Patricia said, hope returning to her eyes, "I could disappear. I could cut my hair, change my name and become no one."
She drew a breath.
"I could be—"
"A maid," Elise blurted.
Everyone froze.
Then Patricia's face lit up.
"Yes."
She turned eagerly toward Oskar.
"We could become your maids together. No one would know who we truly were. We would serve you and your family."
Her smile became increasingly hopeful.
"I swear I would behave."
Elise nodded quickly, her cheeks turning pink.
"As would I, Master."
Oskar released a long, exhausted sigh.
A reckless and thoroughly devious idea began forming in his mind.
He hated that part of it made sense.
A British princess removed quietly from the political board. A potential hostage if the world turned ugly. A distant dynastic claim he might preserve without ever using. Two women who, however mad and disobedient, had already chosen his side.
He glanced toward the wardrobe, the folded uniforms and the travel chest prepared for his departure.
Then he considered the fact that he was standing in Buckingham Palace wearing only his undergarments while a naked British princess and her maid offered themselves as contraband.
Of course this was happening.
"…Shit," he muttered.
He straightened.
"All right."
Both women became perfectly still.
"I am not deciding your entire futures here," Oskar said. "Not while we are half-naked inside Buckingham Palace and already late for breakfast."
He looked from Patricia to Elise.
"But if you are truly determined to leave, you may come with me. Once we are aboard Nassau and sailing toward Germany, we will decide what happens next."
Both women gasped.
Patricia's face shone with sudden joy, while Elise clasped her hands before her mouth as though afraid a scream might escape.
Oskar pointed toward the maid.
"You. Go to the kitchens—or wherever such things are kept. Find the largest bag you can carry. Something large enough to hold a pig."
Elise's eyes widened.
Then understanding dawned.
"Yes, Your Highness!"
She hurried toward the door.
"A very large bag," she repeated excitedly. "I shall find one immediately."
She disappeared into the corridor.
Patricia placed both hands upon Oskar's abdomen and looked up at him with bright, hopeful eyes.
He stared down at her, rolled his shoulders and patted her gently upon the head.
She beamed.
"Help me dress," he said. "Then pack everything. I will make my final decision once we are safely away from Britain."
"Yes," Patricia answered eagerly. "Of course."
As she hurried toward the wardrobe, Oskar watched her go and found himself thinking:
I sincerely hope this does not get us caught and accidentally begin the First World War.
He snorted softly.
As a wise master had once said:
Do. Or do not. There is no try.
Oskar had always been a doer.
Elise returned several minutes later dragging an enormous burlap sack behind her. It was a coarse, potato-hauling thing, large enough to contain a small farm animal and carrying the unmistakable scent of soil.
Oskar stared at it.
Then at Elise.
Then back at the sack.
"No."
Her face fell.
"But, Your Highness—"
"Far too suspicious."
A sack was something a servant carried. It invited questions, investigation and curious hands.
Curious hands were precisely what Oskar could not afford.
He pushed it aside and reconsidered the situation with the speed of a man accustomed to improvising beneath pressure.
Then he pointed at Patricia.
"You. Uniform."
She blinked.
"What?"
"Put on a uniform."
Oskar opened the wardrobe and pulled out one of his spare military coats.
A few moments later, the British princess stood swallowed inside a German uniform several times too large for her. The coat hung almost to her ankles, while the sleeves extended far beyond her hands. The stiff collar threatened to consume half her face.
It would have been hilarious if it were not almost certainly treasonous.
"This is humiliating," Patricia complained, wrestling with the buttons. "I am a princess."
"You are," Oskar agreed.
Then he fixed her with a flat stare.
"At present, however, you are also my problem. That means you will do exactly as I tell you."
Patricia opened her mouth.
Elise stepped quickly between them.
"It is only for a little while, Princess," she whispered. "Please breathe."
Patricia glared at them both but fell silent.
Oskar handed Elise another long coat, heavy and plain.
"Put this on. Hood raised. Hide your hair."
Elise obeyed immediately, disappearing into the garment until she resembled a small and nervous shadow.
Then Oskar turned toward his travel chest.
It was built from thick wood, reinforced with brass corners and heavy hinges. It looked expensive, dignified and entirely ordinary among the possessions of a foreign crown prince.
More importantly, no British servant would dare open it without permission.
Oskar emptied it.
Shirts, trousers, socks, boots and personal effects were removed until the chest stood bare.
He could leave nothing behind. Forgotten clothing would be inventoried, searched and possibly examined for clues after Patricia's disappearance.
So Oskar chose the only practical solution available.
He wore almost everything.
One shirt went over another. Trousers were layered beneath trousers. Socks were doubled and then tripled. By the time he pulled his formal uniform over the entire arrangement, his naturally excessive body heat had become murderous.
A heavy greatcoat concealed most of the additional bulk.
He looked wrong.
Slightly swollen and unusually stiff.
But Oskar always looked somewhat unnatural, so he hoped no one would question it.
Finally, he knelt beside the empty chest and drove his thumb through the wood near its lower edge.
Once.
Twice.
Then several more times.
The punctures formed a line of small ventilation holes positioned where no casual observer would notice them.
Enough air to breathe.
Hopefully.
Oskar turned toward the women.
"Inside."
Patricia stared at him.
"You cannot be serious."
"Would you prefer the potato sack?"
She looked toward it.
Then climbed into the chest.
Elise followed with considerably less complaint. The two women ended up wedged tightly together, Patricia's arms wrapped around the smaller maid while their oversized coats filled most of the remaining space.
"This is unacceptable," Patricia hissed from within the cramped darkness.
Oskar lowered the lid until only a thin line of light remained.
"Be quiet," he said calmly, "or you will discover what unacceptable truly means."
Patricia fell silent.
The lid closed.
The lock clicked.
Oskar stood, straightened his overloaded uniform and lifted the chest beneath one arm.
Inside, two women shifted and whispered furiously until he struck the side once with his knuckles.
Silence followed.
Then Oskar left his rooms and began walking toward what promised to be the most uncomfortable farewell breakfast of his life.
By the time the farewell breakfast finally ended, Oskar was sweating like a dying draught horse.
It was not entirely from nerves, though those certainly played their part. He had layered half the contents of his travelling chest beneath his uniform, wrapped himself in a heavy greatcoat, and spent the entire meal guarding a box containing two hidden women who seemed constitutionally incapable of remaining still.
He rose carefully from his chair.
A dark patch of perspiration had already spread across the upholstery beneath him.
Perfect.
Oskar bent, lifted the travel chest beneath his left arm and held it close against his side. He had refused every offer from servants to carry it, claiming that the contents were private and fragile. Allowing anyone else to touch it was out of the question.
Now came the farewells.
He shook hands.
He smiled.
He bowed.
He offered appropriate condolences and expressions of gratitude while praying that neither woman inside the chest sneezed, coughed or decided to complain about the lack of space.
He also tried not to breathe too deeply. Every additional movement sent another wave of heat through the impossible collection of clothing beneath his uniform.
Naturally, because fate possessed an excellent sense of humour, King George V noticed.
The king's eyes moved from the chest to Oskar's perspiring face.
"Carrying your own luggage, Your Imperial Highness?" George asked. His tone was mild, but his gaze remained sharp.
Oskar smiled with the calm dignity of a man who was not currently smuggling a British princess out of Buckingham Palace.
"Exercise, Your Majesty. I dislike troubling servants with unusually heavy objects."
He adjusted the chest beneath his arm.
"Besides, it contains several delicate souvenirs from my visit. I would be most displeased if they were misplaced."
Something shifted faintly inside.
Oskar tightened his grip.
George regarded him for another moment, plainly aware that the German prince was behaving strangely but lacking any polite reason to challenge him. A king could not demand that a foreign crown prince open his private luggage during a farewell intended to display friendship.
At least, not without creating an incident of his own.
"I see," George said at last.
Oskar inclined his head and continued walking.
Nearby, several guests had begun murmuring about Patricia's absence. Her mother dismissed the concern with the weary resignation of a woman accustomed to her daughter vanishing whenever duty became inconvenient.
"She is probably hiding somewhere," Princess Louise Margaret said, waving one hand. "Patricia has always disappeared when ceremonies become tedious."
Her gaze moved briefly toward Oskar.
"And she has grown rather attached to Prince Oskar. I suspect she did not wish to watch him leave."
Oskar nearly inhaled his own tongue.
He forced himself to offer a polite, sympathetic nod while the chest under his arm seemed to grow heavier by the second.
Then, as though the situation had not already become sufficiently dangerous, Prince Edward decided to accompany him.
The boy followed Oskar down the palace steps, climbed into the same carriage and seated himself beside him as though nothing could have been more natural.
Edward did not leave his side once.
Oskar smiled politely.
Inside his mind, he begged the universe to show mercy.
It did not.
The carriage travelled through London beneath a bright morning sky. Red-coated guards lined the streets and stood at attention along the quay, while naval officers waited in immaculate formation to oversee the departure of the German delegation.
Oskar remained upright throughout the journey, the chest braced firmly against his leg. Every bump in the road sent a faint movement through it, followed by what he hoped no one else could hear as muffled irritation.
Edward spoke cheerfully about the ship, the river and the possibility of visiting Germany one day.
Oskar answered with perfect courtesy while sweating like an industrial boiler.
If anyone found his appearance unusual, they said nothing. Perhaps they assumed the German prince had developed a fever.
Perhaps they believed all Germans produced excessive heat.
Either explanation was safer than the truth.
At last they reached the quay.
Edward waved as Oskar began ascending the gangway of SMS Nassau.
Oskar returned the gesture with measured dignity, one hand raised while the other continued supporting the travel chest beneath his arm.
The instant his boots struck German steel, something inside him loosened.
It was not quite relief.
It was permission to breathe.
He was not home, but he was standing upon German territory again—surrounded by German sailors, German officers and men who answered to him rather than to some unseen British arrangement.
The crew snapped to attention.
His Eternal Guard stood waiting among them, Captain Carter at their head. Carter's eyes narrowed immediately upon seeing the crown prince: the excessive perspiration, the stiffness of his movements and the way he carried the chest as though it contained either state secrets or an unexploded shell.
Kiderlen-Waechter noticed as well.
His gaze moved briefly toward the chest before turning away with diplomatic discipline. A man in his position had survived by understanding that certain mysteries were dangerous merely to acknowledge.
Prince Edward remained upon the quay, waving with cheerful persistence.
The lines were cast off.
The engines began to turn.
Nassau eased away from the dock.
London slowly receded.
Warehouses, bridges and stone buildings drifted backward like painted scenery while the Thames widened around the battleship. The crowds upon the quay became a shifting mass of colour, then a narrow line, then nothing more than distant shapes beneath the flags.
Only when Buckingham Palace lay far behind them and the British shoreline had begun to lose its detail did Oskar finally move.
He carried the chest toward a quieter section of the deck with the solemnity of a man transporting a coffin.
Captain Carter followed.
"Your Highness," he began carefully, "may I ask what—"
"Later."
Oskar set the chest down with a heavy thud.
Kiderlen-Waechter approached as well, though his expression suggested he already regretted every decision that had led him to this particular moment.
Oskar knelt and unlocked the brass fittings.
The lid creaked open.
For one heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then two heads rose from the darkness like spirits emerging from a deeply undignified tomb.
Patricia and Elise blinked into the sunlight.
Both women were flushed, stiff and thoroughly dishevelled. Oversized coats swallowed their bodies, while strands of hair had escaped every attempt at concealment. They looked like two owls dragged from a chimney after a prolonged argument.
Patricia inhaled deeply.
"Air."
Elise nodded with equal reverence.
"Wonderful air."
They climbed from the chest as though committing treason were merely an uncomfortable form of travel.
Patricia stretched with a satisfied sigh. Elise followed more carefully, rubbing life back into her arms while her honey-blonde hair escaped its pins.
Captain Carter stared as though he had just witnessed a naval gun hatch from an egg.
Kiderlen-Waechter's face became completely blank.
For a diplomat, it was the nearest possible expression to horror.
"What…" he began, choosing every word with extreme caution. "Your Imperial Highness—who are these women?"
Oskar closed the chest and waved one hand as though dismissing an unimportant change in the weather.
"My new maids."
Silence seized the deck.
Several sailors who had been pretending not to watch immediately became fascinated by distant rigging.
Before anyone could recover enough to question him, the two alleged maids hurried toward the railing.
Patricia reached it first and leaned over, watching Britain withdraw behind the bends of the river. Elise joined her, covering her mouth as bright, nervous laughter escaped.
"We did it," Patricia breathed.
Elise nodded so vigorously that what remained of her hairstyle collapsed.
"We truly did."
Patricia raised both hands and waved toward the distant shore, though no one there could possibly distinguish her from any other figure aboard the ship.
Oskar watched them with a strange, helpless smile.
Captain Carter remained beside him, evidently attempting to decide whether protecting the prince now required arresting the prince.
Kiderlen-Waechter pressed two fingers against his forehead, as though physically preventing his thoughts from escaping.
Finally, the Foreign Secretary selected the safest subject available.
"You are aware," he said, "that sailors traditionally consider women aboard a battleship to be bad luck."
Oskar sighed.
"Yes."
His gaze moved toward Patricia and Elise.
"These two are trouble. There can be no doubt of that."
He walked toward them and placed both hands upon the railing, one on either side. His immense arms enclosed the two women within the shelter of his body, turning them into small figures standing inside his shadow.
The gesture appeared protective, whether he intended it to or not.
Patricia looked up at him, her blue eyes shining with wind, triumph and fragile hope.
Elise did the same, her cheeks pink and her loose hair streaming behind her.
"Are we truly…" Patricia began, almost afraid to finish the question. "Are we your maids now?"
Oskar stared toward the widening river.
Then he looked down at them.
"Apparently."
Patricia waited.
Oskar exhaled.
"Yes. For the moment."
Two relieved smiles spread across their faces.
Patricia's eyes became wet. Elise blinked rapidly and looked away, embarrassed by the sudden emotion.
Oskar patted each of them once upon the head, accepting them with the weary resignation of a man who had accidentally collected two particularly troublesome strays.
For a moment, while Britain diminished behind them, he could not deny the obvious.
They looked happy.
And, strangely enough, so did he.
Behind them, his officers and guards continued staring in profound confusion. None appeared to have recognized the women beneath their oversized clothing and disordered hair.
Oskar intended to preserve that ignorance for as long as possible.
Yet as the river widened and the wind began carrying the sharper taste of the sea, his thoughts returned to the previous day.
The naval review.
The Royal Navy passing beneath black smoke.
Three volleys tearing across the Channel with enough force to shake stone, glass and bone.
It had been magnificent.
Awe-inspiring.
A procession of steel intended to convince every observer that British supremacy would endure for another century.
And yet Oskar understood what had rested beneath the spectacle.
Not merely confidence.
Uncertainty.
Britain remained immensely powerful, but it was powerful in the manner of an ageing lion that roared more violently because it could hear younger predators moving through the grass.
The world had seen the fleet and believed the roar.
Oskar had heard the fear beneath it.
He looked down at Patricia standing within the shelter of his arm, then toward Elise smiling into the wind.
A card, not a strong one. Perhaps not even a useful one. But a card nevertheless.
If the world insisted upon setting itself ablaze in four years, possessing one more uncertain advantage might prove better than possessing none.
He only had to prevent anyone from discovering who the two women truly were.
He also had to persuade them to behave.
Oskar considered Patricia waving happily at the country she had just abandoned and Elise laughing beside her after secretly violating a foreign crown prince in his sleep.
His confidence in that second task was considerably weaker.
If either woman lost control, he would not merely face embarrassment.
He would be trapped inside a scandal capable of poisoning relations between empires—and possibly helping to ignite the very war he had spent years trying to prevent.
Oskar released a long breath and watched the British coast recede.
He was in trouble, although not yet, but soon.