"Long time no see, big boy."
The words slid into Oskar's ear like a blade wrapped in velvet.
His body reacted before his mind could intervene—muscles tightening, spine locking, breath catching for a single, traitorous instant. He knew that voice. He remembered it with uncomfortable clarity: the cool confidence, the way she had once smiled at him across a ballroom as if deciding whether he was worth the trouble.
That had been years ago. His coming-of-age ceremony. A different world. A different Oskar.
Now slender fingers pressed into the muscle of his shoulders, kneading with deliberate familiarity. Not tentative. Not asking. Her hands knew exactly what they were doing, tracing lines that made no effort to pretend innocence.
She leaned forward, close enough that the silk of her bodice brushed his upper back, close enough that he felt the warmth of her body through layers of fabric. Her breath touched the skin beneath his ear, soft and warm.
"I've missed you," she whispered—low, almost sorrowful now. "It's been such a long time."
Shock chased heat through his chest.
This was not how she had been.
This was not how she was supposed to be.
What in God's name is she doing?
Across the small table, Franz Ferdinand's eyes widened. His wine glass rose halfway to his mouth—and stopped. He froze there, watching the scene unfold with something dangerously close to disbelief. Wine sloshed against the rim.
Oskar made a decision.
He reached up and closed his hand around her wrist—not hard, not gentle, but firm enough to halt the motion. He turned in his chair just enough to look at her properly.
For the first time that evening, he really looked.
Princess Patricia stood close—too close—her posture relaxed, her confidence worn like a second skin. Her hair, a warm light brown, was drawn back neatly, braided and pinned at the nape of her neck in a style that kept it out of the way rather than on display, exposing the clean line of her throat. A few rebellious strands had worked loose during the evening, softening the precision and giving her an air of studied negligence.
Her face was unmistakably royal—high cheekbones, a straight nose, pale skin untouched by artifice—but it was her eyes that held him. Blue, bright, alert. Not wide with innocence, not dulled by boredom. Eyes that watched and chose.
Her dress was white—ivory silk cut in the English style, fitted cleanly at the waist, skimming her hips before falling in a way that suggested movement rather than restriction. The neckline was modest by London standards, daring by Berlin's—enough to draw the eye without begging for it. The fabric hugged her where it mattered, hinting at an hourglass figure shaped not by indulgence but by an active life: riding, walking, sport. She was fit, yes—but not hard. There was softness there. Health. Weight in the right places.
His gaze dropped despite himself—shoulders to waist, the gentle curve of her chest, the way the silk pulled when she leaned in, the quiet certainty of a woman comfortable in her own body.
He caught himself.
"Princess," he said under his breath, voice low and controlled, "calm yourself. You're making a scene."
He didn't wait for her reply.
With the simple inevitability of a man who could stop a charging bull by force alone, he claimed control of the movement. He didn't yank. He didn't need to. The difference in strength made itself clear the moment his fingers closed around her delicate wrist. Bone and sinew yielded beneath his grip, not painfully—just undeniably. He guided her away from his back as if rearranging furniture—precise, unhurried, unquestionable.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward the table. "Before your father's people decide to faint."
Patricia let him take her.
"Oh," she murmured, a faint tremor running through her as his grip shifted, her breath catching just slightly, "you're so commanding, Oskar."
Her smile curved—bright, unapologetic, pleased. "I like that."
He pulled a chair into place and pressed it down with one hand, seating her beside him. He drew it closer to the table, closer to himself, until their shoulders nearly touched. The proximity was deliberate—his way of containing the situation without surrendering it.
Now seated, she seemed even more aware of him. Her knee angled subtly toward his, her posture open, unguarded. The light caught in her eyes when she looked up at him, and this time she didn't hide the reaction at all.
To her credit, she made no effort to mask the shy delight that crossed her face. Being this close to him again—after years of memory and imagination—felt unreal, like stepping into a scene she had replayed in her mind and never quite believed would come true.
She looked up at him, eyes bright and stubborn, and spoke softly, as if making a promise rather than a confession.
"I didn't come to London to behave."
Behind them, the ballroom kept breathing—music swelling and receding, plates clinking, laughter rising and falling—but a different current began to move through the room. Heads turned. Fans lifted. Men pretended they hadn't noticed and very obviously had.
The British royals watched with careful stillness. Patricia's father, Prince Arthur—fifth son of Queen Victoria—did not move. Nor did her mother, Princess Louise Margaret of Prussia, born a Hohenzollern and therefore painfully aware of what Oskar represented.
No one intervened.
They all knew Patricia well enough to understand that interference now would only harden her resolve—and that dragging a princess away from a foreign crown prince in public would be its own scandal. There would be words later. Sharp ones. Private ones.
For now, they watched.
The foreign ambassadors watched too, with less sentiment and more calculation. Seeing Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Crown Prince Oskar seated together like old friends was unsettling enough. That was no longer an alliance of convenience—it was familiarity, ease, something power alone did not buy.
And now a British princess had joined them.
Patricia held no office, no command, no great fortune of her own—but presence was power in rooms like this. Some wondered, briefly, whether this signaled a warming of relations between Britain and Germany. Most dismissed the thought just as quickly.
Patricia was known as a rogue. An independent spirit. A woman who went against expectation. A supporter, it was whispered, of the women's movement—perhaps even the suffragettes.
Earlier that evening, the Iron Prince had refused almost every dance offered to him.
Now a British princess had put her hands on him as if she had the right.
At the table, Franz Ferdinand recovered enough to smile—the particular smile he wore when life offered scandal without requiring him to start one himself. He lifted his glass toward Patricia in greeting.
"Well," he said warmly, "this evening finally becomes interesting."
Patricia released Oskar at last and turned to Ferdinand, composure snapping back into place like a practiced mask. She curtsied with flawless precision—perfectly proper while sitting far too close to a man she was not supposed to touch.
"Your Excellency," she said smoothly.
Ferdinand inclined his head, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"I must ask," he said, glancing between them, "how is it that you two know each other so… well already?"
Oskar exhaled slowly.
And Princess Patricia smiled, as if the answer delighted her far more than the question ever could.
"I was ambushed," Oskar said at last, rubbing a hand across his face. "By her. During my coming-of-age ball—27 July, 1908. I remember the date because I remember the confusion."
"A very good year," Ferdinand agreed dryly.
Patricia laughed softly, already leaning closer at Oskar's side—too close for decorum, too natural to be accidental. She reached for his hand as if it had always been hers to take.
"It was a long time ago," she said fondly, eyes bright with memory. "And I remember it perfectly. I was the first to dance with you that night." Her smile sharpened, tinged now with something almost rueful. "I've never forgotten it. I regret, more than anything, that I had to leave you then."
She tilted her head, studying him openly.
"And because I left," she added, lightly but not joking, "you chose Gundelinda instead of me."
Oskar, who had been trying very hard to ignore the warmth of her fingers around his, took a sip of apple juice—
—and promptly sprayed half of it across the table.
Ferdinand's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"
"Oh my," Patricia said immediately, slipping a white handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at Oskar's coat with exaggerated care. "Look at the mess you've made, Your Highness."
Oskar set the glass down hard and wiped his mouth, staring at her.
"Wait," he said. "What are you talking about? I thought you didn't like me."
Patricia froze. Her hand stilled against his chest.
Her blue eyes lifted to his, wide and unguarded now, her voice softer when she spoke.
"I'm sorry if that's what you believed," she said. "I was recalled. The ambassador pulled me away—I was sent there only to test your interest. And when you seemed… indifferent, I was told there was no point staying."
She hesitated, then went on, quietly but firmly.
"But now we're here again. And I finally have the chance to talk to you. To hear about you." Her gaze traveled shamelessly—his shoulders, his chest, the sheer scale of him. "And now that I've seen you properly, after all this time… I want to know everything."
Ferdinand nearly choked on his wine.
Oskar stared at her. "What?"
"Yes," she said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "Now I want answers."
Ferdinand coughed, slid a plate of carefully arranged food toward them as a footman passed. "By all means," he murmured. "Please continue. I live for these moments."
Patricia ignored the food entirely.
She took Oskar's hand again—openly this time, fingers threading lightly through his, testing as if to confirm that he was solid, real. Then her thumb brushed the ring on his finger.
She paused.
"Hm," she said thoughtfully. "Three wives, I hear. And yet only one ring." She glanced up at him, teasing returning. "Shouldn't they have given you more?"
Oskar coughed again. "That would be… impractical."
She smiled sweetly and traced his fingers with her thumb.
"But you have very powerful hands," she said softly. "Such long, thick, fingers. Strong ones. I'm sure they could manage more than just three rings."
The meaning landed like a physical blow.
Oskar pulled his hand back, forcing himself to breathe, heat rising to his ears.
"Princess," he said quietly, "what are you saying? You're being inappropriate. Please—calm yourself."
For a moment even Ferdinand was stunned.
Patricia seemed to realize it too. She drew back suddenly, hands rising to her chest as if caught doing something terrible. Her expression shifted—shock, embarrassment, then something wounded and raw.
"Oh—no, Oskar, I didn't mean to offend you," she said quickly. "I just… I thought that because you're so easygoing with women, that perhaps with you I could be myself. That I could speak honestly."
Her voice trembled now.
"But I see you're just like the others," she went on, bitterness creeping in. "You only like women who are useful to you. Women who stay quiet and agreeable and don't say too much. Fine. I understand."
Oskar's breath caught.
"Wait," he said at once. "No. That's not what I meant."
Patricia looked away, blinking rapidly, pride warring with hurt. Around them the banquet continued—music swelling, laughter rising—but the space at their table felt suddenly fragile, taut as wire.
Ferdinand watched in silence, amusement gone, curiosity replaced with something sharper.
"No… it's alright," Patricia said quietly.
Her voice softened, brittle at the edges. She rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt with hands that suddenly seemed unsure of themselves. "I understand," she added, eyes glistening as she turned slightly toward Ferdinand. "Your Excellency—my apologies. I didn't mean to intrude."
She took a step back, preparing to leave.
Oskar moved without thinking.
His hand closed around hers—firm, decisive—and stopped her mid-step.
"Wait."
For a heartbeat she stood frozen.
Oskar didn't see it then, but a flicker crossed her face—quick as lightning—a flash of something satisfied, almost mischievous, before it vanished beneath renewed composure.
"No, Patricia," he said, more gently now. "I didn't mean it like that."
He guided her back toward the chair, not forcing, just… inevitable. "Sit. Please. Let's talk, alright? I'm not pushing you away."
She hesitated just long enough for it to look believable—then sat.
Oskar exhaled, rubbing a hand across his face. "I was shocked by your boldness, that's all. You are—" he searched for the right words, awkward suddenly, "—pleasing to the eye. Your dress suits you. And your voice is… pleasant to listen to."
Ferdinand's eyebrow crept upward.
"And," Oskar added quickly, "having a lady at the table instead of just the two of us isn't such a terrible thing. So please—stay."
Patricia's expression brightened almost instantly, like a storm passing over the sun.
"Oh," she said lightly. "In that case…"
She leaned in again—less provocatively now, more comfortably—and asked, almost casually, "So. You are a supporter of women's rights then?"
Ferdinand nearly laughed into his wine.
Oskar blinked. "What? No. I didn't say that."
Patricia tilted her head, watching him closely.
"I'm a prince with three wives," Oskar continued, blunt as ever. "If I let everyone decide everything, the household would fall apart in a week. There is structure. And I intend to keep it."
Ferdinand barked a laugh. "Ha! Well said, my man."
Patricia frowned—and gave Oskar's shoulder a light, playful slap.
"Hmph," she said. "Men. You're all controlling brutes."
But she didn't move away.
She folded her hands in her lap and looked off to the side, feigning irritation. A moment later she flinched as Oskar's large palm settled gently on her shoulder.
"Don't be angry," he said quietly. "You know I respect you. All of you." He hesitated, then continued, earnest now. "I love my women deeply. And in my own way, I see it as my duty to carry the heavier burdens—so they don't have to. That gives them freedom to live, to choose what brings them joy, without worrying about the weight of the world."
Patricia's posture softened. The edge left her expression.
She glanced up at him again, searching his face.
"…That's a strange way of seeing things," she admitted.
"Maybe," Oskar said. "But it works."
A brief silence passed.
Then he shifted, clearing his throat. "Anyway. You wanted to talk about something else, didn't you?"
Her eyes lit instantly.
"Oh—yes!" she said, leaning forward eagerly. "Africa. Please tell me. Is it true you swam in shark-infested waters as if you'd been born there?"
"Half true," Oskar replied. "There were sharks. I wasn't born there." He paused, then added evenly, "But yes, I did swim with them. I hunted a few. And I punched one larger shark in the nose to drive it away."
Patricia stared at him, stunned admiration flashing across her face.
Ferdinand's mouth fell open. "You didn't tell me that part." He leaned forward. "You actually punched a shark? Don't tell me you hunted them bare-handed too."
Oskar shrugged, as if discussing an inconvenient detail. "Only the smaller ones. Reef sharks, they call them."
Patricia laughed—bright, genuine, unrestrained.
"Oh, I knew it," she said. "You're absurd."
Ferdinand lifted his glass. "Absurdly dangerous."
For a brief, fragile moment, the three of them leaned together at the table, laughter softening the edges of the room. The music swelled, plates clinked, and the eyes watching them seemed to fade—just for a heartbeat—as if the world had forgotten to breathe.
Then Ferdinand tilted his head, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Still," he said lightly, "I have to ask—just between the three of us." He lowered his voice. "What is it between you and Cecilie?"
Oskar stiffened.
"I heard," Ferdinand continued, "that you stormed Schwerin Castle yourself. Carried her out. One child in tow, another in her arms." His brow lifted. "That second child—was that yours?"
Patricia's laughter cut off abruptly.
"What?" She turned on Oskar, eyes wide. "No—wait. Is she your lover too? You have a child with her? What's the baby's name?"
Oskar opened his mouth, then closed it, realizing too late that there was no graceful way out of this.
"No," he said quickly. "No, Cecilie isn't my lover. The child—Elisara—is mine, yes, but it wasn't… planned." He ran a hand through his hair. "She was isolated. Afraid. She wanted security—for herself and her children—if something were to happen to her husband or her father."
He stopped himself there.
"And no," he added firmly, "I'm not explaining what might happen to my brother or to her father. Just know that it was… a moment. A human one."
Patricia stared at him, scandalized—and then, strangely, softened.
"That's…" She searched for the word. "That's terribly romantic."
Ferdinand, by contrast, took a long drink of wine.
"Well," he said when he lowered the glass, "your life is certainly colorful, my man."
Patricia slapped Oskar's shoulder again, lighter this time. "You marched into a castle," she said. "Like a knight out of a story. Tell me more."
Oskar opened his mouth—
—and then a sharp tap echoed against the floor.
A wooden walking stick struck the leg of Patricia's chair.
"Move, young lady."
The voice was crisp, unmistakable, edged with steel.
Patricia froze.
Oskar looked up—and felt a cold weight settle in his chest.
Queen Alexandra stood between him and Patricia, cane in hand. Sixty-five years old, slight of frame, one leg stiff from a childhood illness—but her presence filled the space like frost. Her eyes were sharp, her mouth thin with displeasure, and her dislike of Germany was legendary.
"You are sitting far too close to this man," Alexandra said, tapping the cane again. "Have some decency."
For once, Patricia did not argue.
She rose at once, cheeks flushed, and moved to the chair beside Ferdinand instead. Alexandra took her place with deliberate finality, settling beside Oskar as if claiming territory.
The shift was instant. The air tightened. Nearby conversations faltered.
Alexandra turned her gaze on Oskar.
"Well?" she asked coolly. "Have you anything to say for yourself, young man?"
For a heartbeat, Oskar only studied her.
She was small—almost fragile at first glance—silvered hair pinned with ruthless discipline, posture shaped by years of pain and command. Beside him she might have looked like an old flower pressed thin by time. But Oskar had been raised to recognize a different kind of strength.
This woman radiated it.
He inclined his head at once.
"Your Majesty," he said evenly.
The title alone shifted the air.
Without waiting for permission, he turned slightly and gestured to a nearby footman. "Tea. And coffee."
The servant blinked, startled, then bowed. "At once, Your Highness."
Alexandra watched him with narrowed eyes. She did not trust this German prince. Not his size. Not his reputation. Not his household. And certainly not the way her granddaughter—niece, depending on which line one followed—had been touching him as if rules were suggestions rather than law.
The tray arrived.
Before the footman could pour, Oskar took the pot himself.
That, more than anything, made her pause.
He poured first for her. Carefully. Steadily. No flourish. No audience. Then for himself. Then for Patricia. Then for Ferdinand.
When he finished, he slid Alexandra's cup toward her with both hands, the gesture unmistakable—old, formal, deferential.
"In my opinion," Oskar said calmly, "the youngest at the table serves one's elders first. Especially family. Even if distant."
Alexandra's eyes sharpened.
"Family," she repeated.
"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "However distant. And however strained our politics may be."
She studied him now—not with hostility, but calculation.
Her gaze dropped to the cup.
"No sugar?" she asked.
The table froze.
The servant paled.
Oskar paused—then smiled faintly. "My mistake."
The sugar bowl appeared.
"One," he said, dropping a cube in.
Her eyes did not move.
"Two."
Still nothing.
A third. A fourth.
Patricia bit her lip. Ferdinand watched with open fascination.
A fifth.
Alexandra's gaze softened—barely.
"That will do," she said.
Oskar nodded and set the bowl down.
She took a sip.
"Hm," she said. "Coffee."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Oskar replied. "I remembered."
Her brow rose a fraction.
"I do not care for tea," she said. "Coffee keeps me alert. Especially when dealing with unpleasant surprises."
"I've heard," Oskar said. "And I've also heard you are particular about your routines. And your animals."
That landed.
Her eyes snapped to him. "So you do know."
"I try to," he said. "I was pleased to learn the AngelWorks equipment proved… useful."
Her mouth tightened. "I was displeased to discover it was German."
"But not displeased with its performance," he answered, unblinking.
She sniffed. "It is… adequate."
Ferdinand cleared his throat, seizing the opening. "Your Majesty—my hunting dogs use AngelWorks exclusively. Excellent durability."
Alexandra glanced at him, unimpressed.
Patricia, emboldened, added softly, "They are very good, Grandmama."
Alexandra did not look at her.
Her gaze remained fixed on Archduke Ferdinand, and it was to him that she answered.
"Indeed," she said coolly. "A great many of our aristocracy now make use of that hunting-dog equipment—leads, harnesses, training collars. It has proven… reliable." Her mouth tightened. "Even here."
She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "The animal clothing as well. Coats, wraps, protective pieces." A faint irritation crept into her tone. "My own animals insist upon them now. They are… warm. And regrettably well made."
Only then did her eyes flick, briefly, to Oskar.
"So yes," she concluded, "I will not deny that the workmanship is sound."
Oskar gave a short, awkward laugh. "It isn't every day a man my size ends up designing coats for dogs."
For a moment, something like reluctant amusement hovered at the edge of Alexandra's expression.
Then it was gone.
"Do not misunderstand me," Alexandra said. "I do not trust you. I do not approve of your arrangements. And I certainly do not approve of young women throwing themselves at foreign princes. Especially German princes—whose country drove the Danes from their lands."
Oskar stiffened.
"That was not my doing," he said at once. "I opposed it. Many stayed. Many chose to become German. They learned the language. Built lives."
"Excuses," Alexandra said calmly. "That is all I hear."
Then, after a pause:
"However. I do recognize respect when I see it."
Oskar wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or a warning.
Alexandra sipped her coffee again, unhurried.
"You will remember," she said coolly, "that Britain is watching you. Your nation. Your ambition." Her eyes lifted, pale and steady. "You walk a narrow line between what is tolerated… and what is unacceptable."
Cold slid down Oskar's spine.
This was not bluster. This was not theater.
This woman spoke of war as if it were a lever—something to be pulled or released with a steady hand and no tremor of conscience.
"I understand," he said carefully. "Germany seeks only to protect her interests. We have no desire for further expansion."
Alexandra regarded him over the rim of her cup.
"We shall see."
Then, as if the weight of that sentence were already settled, she tilted her head.
"You three were laughing earlier," she said. "Do enlighten me." A pause. "And while you're at it—how is your father these days? Willy has always been… excitable."
The tension eased—slightly. Not gone. Never gone. Just loosened enough to breathe.
Conversation resumed. Plates were refilled. Wine flowed again. For Oskar, apple juice appeared—cool, sharp, grounding.
He endured it.
Stories. Questions. Recollections dragged from the past like an old tapestry—threadbare in places, heavy with history. He answered where he could, deflected where he must, and waited for the moment when endurance would turn into error if he stayed longer.
At last, he stood.
"If you'll excuse me," he said, first to Ferdinand, then to Alexandra. And finally—briefly—to Patricia.
"I find myself… tired."
He did not wait for permission.
Buckingham Palace unfolded around him in quiet grandeur. Corridors stretched long and pale beneath chandeliers dimmed for mourning. His boots echoed softly against marble as he walked alone, the sound of the banquet fading with every step.
For a while, there was only silence.
Then—
a shadow slipped free from a side hall.
Patricia followed him, shawl drawn close, her steps light, deliberate. Her eyes shone with mischief—and something far more dangerous beneath it.
Quietly.
Carefully.
And very much on purpose.