**St. Petersburg — The Winter Palace
Private Music Room of the Grand Duchess**
Spring sunlight poured through the towering windows of the Winter Palace, gilding the polished oak floor until it shone like a mirror. Yet no amount of light could soften the oppressive mood that clung stubbornly to the room.
Grand Duchess **Olga Nikolaevna**—celebrated across Europe as *the most beautiful princess of her generation*—lounged at the piano in loose, informal attire. With a bored, irritated expression, she struck the ivory keys at random using a single slender finger.
*Din… don… din…*
The discordant notes echoed sharply through the ornate chamber, sounding almost rebellious against its refined elegance.
Once again, she had been placed under punishment by her autocratic father, **Tsar Nicholas I**, for what he coldly termed *"marital obstinacy."*
Only the day before, she had rejected yet another "ideal match" chosen for her—**Crown Prince Maximilian of Bavaria**, a man of impeccable lineage and utterly unbearable conversation.
"It was a catastrophe."
The memory alone made her slam her palm down on the keyboard.
*Dong—!*
Maximilian was not unattractive. He was tall, well-built, and carried himself with confidence. But the moment he opened his mouth, Olga had nearly fled the room.
He spoke at length about Bavarian beer. Then about hunting wild boar. Then—God help her—he enthusiastically described how he personally supervised the transformation of said boar into his favorite blood sausage.
She had not felt like a princess on a courtship visit.
She had felt like livestock at a butcher's stall.
She had not spoken to him again.
The consequences were swift and predictable. Upon hearing of it, the Tsar flew into a rage, branding her *ungrateful* and *willful*, sentencing her to another week of isolation so she might, in his words, "properly contemplate her duties to the Romanov dynasty."
"Duties?" Olga muttered bitterly.
"Is it my sacred duty to marry an idiot whose mind contains nothing but beer foam and pig entrails?"
Her irritation grew sharper with every thought, and her fingers struck the piano again in angry disarray.
Just then, the door opened quietly.
**Empress Alexandra** entered, her expression gentle, her smile tinged with resignation.
"Olya," she said softly, using her daughter's childhood name, "are you still angry with your father?"
"Mother!"
The moment Olga saw her, defiance melted into wounded indignation. She rose at once and threw herself into her mother's arms like a wronged child—which, in truth, she very much was.
"Papa is unbearable! How could he even consider marrying me off to that Bavarian Sausage Prince?!"
"There, there," Alexandra soothed her, patting her back. "I know. Your father's temper has never been a subtle instrument."
She guided Olga to the sofa near the window and sighed.
"But my dear Olya… you cannot continue like this. Do you know how many suitors you have dismissed already?"
"Archduke Albert of Austria—you said he was as stiff as a carved post."
"Duke Adolf of Nassau—you said he was too short to look you in the eye."
"And now you have dismissed the Crown Prince of Bavaria as well. Tell me—what kind of husband *do* you wish to find? Europe is running out of princes worthy of you."
"I…"
Olga's cheeks flushed faintly.
Unbidden, her thoughts drifted to *him*.
The man who, in the imperial hunting reserve, had calmly shot a rabbit through the eye from two hundred meters away.
The man who, at a Winter Palace banquet, had spoken with wit and effortless charm.
The man who, in private conversation with her father, had dissected European affairs with surgical precision—and left seasoned ministers silently unsettled.
She knew it was a foolish fantasy.
But once one has seen an eagle soar, how can one admire sparrows fluttering in the courtyard?
"I don't want to be handed over like an object," Olga said quietly, lowering her gaze.
"To a man who neither loves me nor understands me."
She hesitated, then asked softly, almost shyly:
"Mother… do you think *Queen Victoria* is happy?"
At the mention of Victoria, the Empress fell silent.
Of course she envied her.
What woman would not envy a marriage built on affection, respect—and genuine partnership?
"But, Olya," Alexandra replied carefully, "that is England. And this is Russia. Our traditions are… less forgiving."
Mother and daughter sat in silence.
Then a bright, amused voice came from the doorway.
"My dear sister, is your 'Prince Charming' tormenting you again?"
**Crown Prince Alexander**, dressed in riding attire, entered with a playful smile and a sealed letter in hand.
"Brother!" Olga brightened instantly, as though salvation had arrived.
"Come quickly—judge for yourself! Father—"
"Peace, peace," Alexander laughed, sitting beside her. "I've already dampened the flames with Father."
Then, with theatrical flair, he waved the letter before her eyes.
"And now—behold. A personal letter from London. From your Friends Victoria."
"Really?!"
Olga snatched the envelope, her emerald-green eyes lighting up.
Victoria's handwriting was elegant, affectionate, and unmistakably teasing.
She first offered warm sympathy for Olga's recent "unfortunate encounters," assuring her of complete understanding. Then the tone shifted—lighter, almost mischievous.
She wrote of a *small, informal* **Royal Spring Garden Party** to be held at **Buckingham Palace**.
> *"Arthur has one of his ideas again,"* Victoria wrote.
> *"He insists that Europe's young royals are suffocating under protocol. He wishes them to ride, laugh, speak freely—and perhaps form friendships without dynastic chains."*
> *"Naturally, you were the first person I thought of, my dearest Olga.
> I formally invite you—personally—as my most cherished guest.
> You must come."*
Enclosed was a gilded invitation, exquisitely crafted, bearing the Queen's signature and faintly scented with roses.
"A Royal Spring Garden Party…!"
Olga stared at it as though it were a miracle.
Escape from her father's relentless matchmaking.
A journey to London—vibrant, modern, intoxicating.
And above all…
A chance to see **Arthur Lionheart** again.
"I'm going. I must go!"
She leapt to her feet, waving the invitation like a victorious banner.
Alexander watched her with an indulgent smile, then took the invitation and examined it closely.
His eyes moved down the list of invitees—European heirs, dynasts, future monarchs.
Then he paused.
"…Archduke Stefan of Habsburg-Lorraine."
He glanced at his sister thoughtfully.
Unlike Olga, Alexander already ruled half the empire in his mind. He understood power—and traps.
This "garden party" was no innocent gathering.
Queen Victoria and her husband—**Arthur Lionheart**, that brilliantly dangerous man—did not pour friendship wine without sharpening the blade beneath the cup.
"Olya," Alexander said at last, smiling faintly,
"I support you entirely."
"However… you are still officially *under punishment*. I suggest you personally present this invitation to Father."
His smile sharpened.
"Promise him that you will observe—*seriously* and *carefully*."
"Who knows?"
"If you play your part well enough… our dear Father may graciously unlock the gates of your prison."
And somewhere, far away in London, the Arthur was already setting the board.