The groundbreaking ceremony for the Crystal Palace proceeded exactly as scheduled.
London, for once, offered a rare gift: bright blue sky, clean sunlight, and a golden glow cast over the wide lawns of Hyde Park.
And yet every dignitary present carried a knot of dread in his chest.
For this was the day Feargus O'Connor had chosen for his great spectacle—the London General Strike and March.
Scotland Yard's urgent reports predicted more than one hundred thousand furious workers rising out of the East End and converging upon the park to "interrupt" the ceremony held in Her Majesty's presence.
"Your Highness, the situation is dire!"
Prime Minister Melbourne approached Arthur Lionheart with a sheen of sweat, speaking in a low, panicked whisper.
"We've mobilized all police and cavalry. Checkpoints ring the entire perimeter, but… they are too many. If violence breaks out, the consequences…"
He swallowed.
"Perhaps… we should cancel the ceremony."
"Cancel?"
Arthur met his gaze with serene amusement.
"Why ever would we do that? The invitations are sent, foreign correspondents are watching, and today is not merely a groundbreaking—it is a declaration."
Melbourne faltered. "But… the workers—"
"Do not trouble yourself, my Lord."
Arthur gently clapped him on the shoulder.
"They will not come in the numbers you fear."
At that same hour — the East End
O'Connor stood on a makeshift wooden stage, arms raised, voice sharpened to a provocative crescendo.
"Brothers! For bread! For the vote! For our children devoured by the machines—toward Hyde Park we march! Let the nobles hear the roar of the working class!"
Normally, such rhetoric would ignite the crowd.
But today, the scene below him was… pitiful.
Instead of the expected hundred thousand, scarcely five thousand had assembled—young troublemakers, a handful of zealots, and almost none of the factory workers who should have formed the movement's backbone.
"Where are they? Where did everyone go?!"
O'Connor's voice cracked.
A breathless lieutenant pushed through the thin crowd.
"Leader! Bad news—terrible news! Our men sent to incite the factories… they were beaten!"
"What?!"
"The factory owners… somehow… they've all hired retired soldiers as 'guard teams,' armed with revolvers. They fired warning shots into the air. Anyone who tried to push forward was knocked down. We couldn't get near the gates!"
"And—"
The man hesitated.
"And the workers… they won't come with us. Yesterday, all the major factories announced triple pay for anyone who showed up today. And—"
he winced—
"a meat lunch."
O'Connor almost choked on his own breath.
Triple wages.
And meat.
In that moment, he understood with crushing clarity.
He had been outmaneuvered—utterly—by the British prince consort's quiet ruthlessness.
O'Connor had come preaching "revolutionary ideals" and "the People's Charter."
Arthur Lionheart had simply given workers what they actually needed:
money.
food.
stability.
For men who lived week to week, who feared next month's rent, what was the value of abstract voting reforms compared to the rattle of real shillings in the hand and the smell of warm roast on the table?
His "revolution" had been drowned by the Crown's calculated generosity.
Worse awaited.
As O'Connor led his diminished, dispirited force toward Hyde Park, the streets were lined with onlookers—not supporters, not sympathizers, but ordinary Londoners observing the procession as though it were a curious parade.
Their murmurs drifted like cold wind.
"Why don't these men work? Why cause trouble?"
"Silly, isn't it? The Queen and the Prince have lowered food prices and reopened schools. What more do they want?"
"I read in the Daily Mirror—these agitators don't care about us. They only want power."
Each whisper stabbed O'Connor like a needle.
Without realizing it, he and his cause had become pariahs.
Not liberators—disturbers of public peace.
By the time they reached Hyde Park, a wall of steel awaited them.
Rows of Royal Police and factory guards stood silent, rifles grounded, bayonets gleaming beneath the sun. A cold, immovable line.
O'Connor's heart sank into his boots.
He opened his mouth, ready to signal retreat.
Then someone stepped forward from the defensive line.
Not Arthur Lionheart.
Not any minister.
But Charles Dickens.
The writer whose voice carried moral weight among workers like a kind of secular priesthood.
He held no firearm—only a sealed document bound with red ribbon.
He walked calmly to the space between the forces, unfurled the decree, and read aloud, his clear voice carrying across the tense field.
"By order of Her Majesty Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom—"
A ripple passed through the workers.
"Her Majesty has heard the voices of her people and witnessed their hardships. She is deeply moved."
"Therefore, Her Majesty will establish at once a Royal Committee for the Mediation of Labor Relations—comprised of representatives of the Crown, Parliament, and the workers themselves. This committee shall address all reasonable concerns regarding wages, hours, and safety."
The announcement detonated like fireworks among the crowd.
The Queen—responding?
Inviting workers into the process?
Even O'Connor felt the ground shift beneath him.
But Dickens's tone hardened.
"However—
Her Majesty commands this as well:
All grievances must be pursued through peace and lawful channels.
Any attempt to coerce the nation through violence, disorder, or the paralysis of public life will be met with the firmest and most unyielding response from Crown and government."
The workers froze.
Cold reality washed over them.
A path forward—
and a warning of steel.
The reaction was instantaneous.
"Long live the Queen!"
"No need to march—we've won!"
"Back home! O'Connor wanted a riot—he's mad!"
The crowd shattered.
Flags dropped. Banners fell.
Men who had arrived shouting revolutionary slogans now hurried home, eager for the promised committee, the triple pay, the lunch.
In moments, the red banners lay abandoned on the ground.
Only O'Connor remained, with a handful of loyalists—bewildered, defeated, irrelevant.
He stared blankly at Dickens retreating toward the defensive line, then toward the distant Crystal Palace where, under the bright sun, the groundbreaking ceremony continued undisturbed.
This "workers' tempest" had been dissolved not with battle, but with calculation—
swift, elegant, merciless.
Arthur Lionheart had not needed to appear.
His strategy spoke for him.