Oskar had taken no more than two steps when the room erupted behind him.
"Your Highness!"
Elise's voice cracked—sharp, breathless, threaded with panic.
And over it, closer and louder—
"Oskar—please! Don't—don't leave me!"
He stopped.
Not because he wanted to.
Because Patricia was suddenly there.
She collided with his bare back, forehead striking between his shoulder blades, arms wrapping around him with desperate force. She couldn't reach higher—she was simply too small—but her fingers dug into his skin as if she were afraid he might vanish the moment she let go.
It wasn't seductive anymore.
It wasn't theatrical.
This was panic.
"I'm sorry," she rushed out, words tumbling over uneven breaths. "I understand—you're angry. You have every right to be. About Elise. About what she did. About everything."
Her cheek pressed against his back, warm and trembling. She barely reached the center of his torso, yet the intensity of her grip made her feel heavier than she should have been.
"But please—please understand," she continued. "I only had her assigned to you because I thought she would keep things under control."
Oskar closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
"Princess," he said, low and warning.
She didn't hear it—or refused to.
"I was afraid," Patricia admitted, voice shaking now. "Afraid you'd be surrounded by other maids. That something would… happen." She swallowed. "Tanya and Anna—they were maids once, weren't they?"
That landed.
Oskar felt something sour twist in his chest.
Ah. So that was how it looked.
"I thought maybe—maybe you'd fall into old habits," she blurted, clearly mortified just saying it. "Sleeping with maids. Making… babies. I didn't want to imagine it, but—"
For half a second, despite everything, Oskar almost laughed.
Is that really my reputation now?
That I can't be left alone with a household staff without the population count going up?
Then again—
His gaze flicked, unbidden, toward Elise standing near the bed. She hovered there nervously, hands clasped together, honey-blonde hair loose around her shoulders, eyes wide with worry.
Cute. Soft.
And yes—if he were being brutally honest—tempting.
…Well. Shit.
That realization did not help his mood.
"I trusted Elise," Patricia said quickly. "I trusted her to hold herself back. To not cross that line."
His eyes snapped open.
"And instead," she whispered, voice breaking, "I made everything worse. I know that now. I swear I didn't mean to spy on you. I just wanted to know that you were safe. That no one touched you."
She hesitated.
Her voice dropped.
"…Except me."
That did it.
Oskar turned.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He guided her around to face him, one hand steady at her side. Her head barely reached the middle of his chest as she looked up at him, blue eyes glassy with tears and fear.
Up close, the difference between them was stark. He stood over her like a wall—broad, bare-chested, breathing slow and controlled—while she clutched at him as if he were the only solid thing left in the room.
His arms, massive even at rest, held her now not roughly, but firmly enough that she finally stilled.
"Princess Patricia," he said evenly, each word precise, "just so we are clear—"
His gaze locked with hers.
"—you do not own me."
The words hit like cold water.
She went rigid.
"I—I didn't mean—" she started, color draining from her face.
"Stop," he said at once.
Not loud.
Absolute.
Her mouth closed instantly.
Behind him, Elise had taken a hesitant step forward without realizing it, stopping just short of touching his arm. She looked between them, worry etched into her delicate features, clearly torn between guilt and fear of what would happen next.
Oskar noticed.
And that was why he didn't move.
He could have.
He could have shaken Patricia loose and crossed the room in two strides. But the princess was pressed against his chest, and Elise stood too close at his side—small, fragile enough that one careless movement could hurt her.
He felt the difference in their weight. Their vulnerability.
And restrained himself by force of will alone.
He stood there, held in place not by strength—
—but by caution.
And a growing, sharp annoyance.
Oskar glanced at Elise—then back at Patricia.
And as he held the princess close, felt the warmth of her against him, caught the sweet edge of her perfume beneath the heavier scent of the room, something finally clicked.
Not desire.
Calculation.
He shifted his focus and studied the woman clinging to him—not as a lover, not as a problem to be solved, but as what she actually was.
"Tell me something," he said quietly. "Just out of curiosity."
Patricia blinked. "What?"
"How far are you from the throne?"
The question cut the air clean in half.
Patricia stared at him, genuinely confused. "I—what?"
Elise inhaled sharply.
Her eyes lit up with sudden, unhelpful enthusiasm, and she straightened as if she'd been called on in a classroom.
"She's… I think thirty-fifth in the line of succession, Your Highness," Elise said quickly. "So yes, she does have a claim. Her father was Queen Victoria's fifth son. It's not strong—but it exists."
Patricia turned toward her, startled. "Elise—"
"And technically," Elise rushed on, cheeks flushing, "her children could inherit as well. Even without marriage. Or—well—there would have to be a coup. Overthrowing the government. That wouldn't be popular, of course. But it would be legal by the law of force."
Silence.
Oskar stared at the maid—at the young British citizen who had just, with cheerful sincerity, suggested overthrowing her own government as a practical solution.
Elise finally noticed the looks fixed on her and shrank, hands clasping together as she muttered, "Or—I mean—she's also very valuable politically. And she's quite good at golf, if that helps."
Oskar laughed.
Once.
Quietly.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
His mind ran despite himself.
George V.
The naval show of force.
The hostility aimed straight at Germany—and at him.
Four years.
That was all history had left before the world caught fire in the other timeline. Four years was nothing.
And here, in his arms, was a British princess with a legitimate—if distant—claim. Children who could, in theory, stand between crowns. A lever that might not move the world, but could tilt it.
If this were a deck of cards, it wasn't a good one.
Not strong.
But a card nonetheless.
And that was the problem.
Patricia had gone pale.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "Why are you asking me this? Why do you care about the British throne?"
Oskar turned back to her.
"Because," he said slowly, "you're not just throwing yourself at a man. You're throwing yourself at something that could shatter history."
She stared at him.
Then, quietly, stubbornly—
"I don't care," she said. "I don't belong here. I never have. I don't fit. You know that."
She pressed herself closer, and without thinking Oskar caught her, his arms closing around her. Elise hesitated only a second before stepping in as well, and suddenly both women were there, held against him.
A moment ago he'd thought them insane.
Now he just felt conflicted.
Crazy or not, they were two very determined British women standing on his side—and damn it, that felt better than it should have.
They both looked up at him.
"If… if you took me with you," Patricia said quickly, hope flaring, "I could disappear. Cut my hair. Change my name. I could be no one. I could be—"
"A maid," Elise blurted.
They froze.
Then Patricia's face lit up.
"Yes!" she said eagerly. "We could be your maids. Together. No one would know who we are. We'd serve you and your family. I swear I'd behave."
Elise nodded, blushing. "Me too, Master."
Oskar sighed—hard.
A reckless, devious idea formed in his mind, and he hated that it made sense. A princess removed from the board. A hostage card, if the world turned ugly. A way to make Britain hesitate—just a little—if war came.
Absurd.
Dangerous.
Inevitable.
Of course this was happening.
He looked at the wardrobe.
At the neatly folded uniforms.
At the fact that he was standing in a foreign palace, in his underwear, unguarded, being offered a British princess as contraband.
"…Shit," he muttered.
He exhaled and straightened.
"All right. Let's do this."
Both women went perfectly still.
"I'm not answering this now," Oskar said. "Not here. Not like this. Maybe once we're on the ship headed back to Germany."
They gasped in unison.
He turned to Elise. "You. Go to the kitchen—or wherever. Find me the biggest bag you can. Something that could hold a pig."
Her eyes widened.
Then understanding dawned.
"Yes—yes, Your Highness!" she said, already breaking away. "A very big bag. I'll find one at once!"
She hurried out.
Patricia pressed her hands to his abdomen and looked up at him with bright, hopeful eyes. Oskar rolled his shoulders, glanced at the wardrobe, and patted her head. She beamed.
"Help me dress," he said over his shoulder. "And pack my things. I'll give you my final answer later."
"Yes," Patricia said quickly. "Of course."
As she moved to the wardrobe, Oskar watched her go and thought, I hope we don't get caught and accidentally start World War One.
Then he snorted softly.
Well… as a wise master once said: there is no try. There is only do.
And Oskar had always been a doer.
---
After Elise returned with a huge burlap sack—one of those coarse, potato-hauling things that smelled faintly of earth—Oskar stared at it for two seconds and realized it would never work.
A sack was the sort of thing a servant carried.
A sack invited questions.
A sack invited hands.
And hands were exactly what he could not afford.
"Nein," he muttered. "Too suspicious."
So, on the spot, with the speed of a man used to improvising under fire, he changed the plan.
He shoved the sack aside and pointed at Patricia.
"You," he said. "Uniform."
Patricia blinked. "What?"
"Uniform," he repeated, already opening his wardrobe. "Now."
A moment later, the British princess was being forced into a German military uniform that was absurdly too large. The coat swallowed her whole, sleeves hanging past her hands. Even the collar looked like it could bite her. It would've been funny if it wasn't criminal.
"This is humiliating," Patricia hissed, wrestling the buttons with angry little jerks. "I am a princess."
"You are," Oskar agreed, without looking up.
Then he fixed her with a flat stare.
"And right now, Princess, you are also my problem. Which means you do what I tell you."
Patricia's mouth opened.
Elise, ever loyal in the worst possible way, stepped in quickly. "It's only for a little while, Your Highness. Please—just breathe."
Patricia glared, but she shut up.
Oskar tossed Elise a long coat as well—one of his, heavy and plain.
"Put it on," he ordered. "Hood up. No hair."
Elise obeyed instantly, swallowing herself in the fabric until she looked like a shy shadow.
Then came the chest.
Oskar's travel chest—thick wood, brass corners, heavy hinges—looked dignified, expensive, and utterly normal for a foreign crown prince. The kind of box no British servant would open without permission, because it belonged to him.
He emptied it completely. Every shirt, every sock, every folded piece of clothing came out.
He couldn't leave anything behind. Leaving clothing in Britain was leaving evidence.
So he did the next best thing.
He wore it.
Layer after layer—shirt under shirt, trousers under trousers, socks doubled and tripled—until his body heat turned murderous. Then he pulled his formal uniform on top and threw a long coat over everything to hide the bulk.
He looked… slightly wrong.
But Oskar always looked slightly wrong.
He finished by driving his thumb into the wood of the chest—twice, then again—punching neat little holes low on the side where no casual glance would catch them. Air holes. Enough to breathe.
Then he grabbed both women, unceremoniously, and stuffed them into the chest like contraband.
They ended up wedged together, hugging each other in the cramped darkness.
Patricia made an outraged sound. "This is unacceptable—!"
Oskar lowered the lid until only a sliver of light remained.
"Be quiet," he said calmly. "Or you'll learn what unacceptable actually means."
The lid shut.
The lock clicked.
And off he went.
By the time the farewell breakfast ended, Oskar was already sweating like a dying draft horse.
Not from nerves—though the nerves were there—but from the simple fact that he was wrapped in too many layers, carrying a chest that weighed far too much, and trying to smile like nothing was wrong.
He rose from his chair.
A wet stain had already spread beneath him on the upholstery.
Perfect.
He hoisted the chest under his left arm—because no servant could touch it—and began saying polite, princely goodbyes while praying that nothing inside the box decided to sneeze.
He shook hands.
He smiled.
He bowed.
He did not breathe too deeply.
And of course—because fate enjoyed comedy—King George V noticed.
His eyes flicked to the chest. Then back to Oskar's sweating face.
"Carrying your own luggage, Your Highness?" George asked, tone mild, eyes sharp.
Oskar smiled, steady as stone.
"Exercise, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly. "I dislike bothering people with heavy things."
George looked faintly puzzled, but he did not press. A king did not question the oddities of a foreign prince too openly—not on a day meant to display "friendship."
Some guests murmured about Patricia's absence, but her mother dismissed it at once with practiced resignation.
"Oh, she is probably hiding again," her mother said, waving a hand. "She always does when duty becomes boring. And she has… grown attached to Prince Oskar. She likely did not wish to see him leave."
Oskar nearly choked on his own breath.
He forced a polite nod and kept walking.
And as if the situation wasn't bad enough—
Prince Edward followed him.
All the way.
Down the palace steps, into the carriage, and then sitting beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Edward did not leave his side for a single moment.
Oskar smiled politely and silently begged the universe to stop.
By the time they reached the port, the sun was bright over London and the sky looked smug in that uniquely English way. Red-coated guards lined the docks, naval officers standing straight as rifles, watching the departure like an imperial ritual.
Edward waved cheerfully.
Oskar waved politely.
Oskar sweated like an industrial furnace.
If anyone thought it odd, they kept it to themselves. Perhaps they assumed the German prince had caught a fever. Or perhaps they assumed Germans simply ran hot.
Either explanation was safer than the truth.
At last, Oskar stepped onto the gangway of SMS Nassau.
The moment his boots hit German steel, something inside him loosened.
Not relief—
permission.
He was home enough for his instincts to breathe again.
The sailors snapped to attention.
His Eternal Guard—Captain Carter among them—stood rigid and watchful. Carter's eyes narrowed instantly at Oskar's strange behavior: the sweating, the stiffness, the chest carried like a sacred relic.
Kiderlen-Wächter noticed too.
His gaze flicked to the chest once, then away again. Diplomats were trained to ignore what they couldn't afford to understand.
Edward remained on the dock, waving like a friendly ghost.
Then the lines were cast off.
The engines turned.
Nassau moved.
London began to slide away.
They passed along the Thames, bridges and buildings drifting backward like scenery on a stage, until even the smell of the city thinned into sea air.
Only then—only when Buckingham was far behind and the flags on the dock had shrunk into colored dots—did Oskar finally move.
He marched the chest toward a quieter section of the deck like a man transporting a coffin.
Captain Carter stepped forward cautiously.
"Your Highness," he said, "may I ask—"
"Later," Oskar muttered.
He set the chest down with a heavy thud, knelt, and unlocked it.
The lid creaked open.
For a heartbeat—nothing.
Then two faces popped up like ridiculous spirits from a haunted treasure box.
Patricia and Elise.
Both flushed. Both stiff. Both blinking like owls dragged into daylight. Both still swallowed in coats far too large for them.
And then, as if they hadn't just committed a diplomatic crime—
they climbed out.
Patricia stretched with a pleased little sigh.
Elise followed, rubbing her arms, hair escaping its pins.
Captain Carter stared like he'd just watched a cannon grow legs.
Kiderlen-Wächter's face went completely blank—which, for a foreign minister, was the closest thing to terror.
"What…?" he began carefully. "Your Highness… who are—"
Oskar waved a hand like he was dismissing the weather.
"My new maids," he said.
The deck went silent.
Then the two "maids" ran to the railing like children who'd escaped school.
They leaned over, watching London fade behind the bends of the river. Patricia waved with both hands. Elise giggled and covered her mouth as if laughter itself might be illegal.
"We did it!" Patricia breathed.
Elise nodded so hard her hair shook loose.
"We really did it…"
Oskar watched them with a strange, helpless smile.
Captain Carter shifted beside him, still trying to compute reality.
Kiderlen-Wächter rubbed his forehead with two fingers, like he was physically holding his sanity in place.
Then, with the tone of a man choosing a safe topic because anything else would break him, the Foreign Minister muttered:
"You know… bringing women aboard a battleship is bad luck."
Oskar didn't deny it.
He just sighed.
"Yep," he said. "These two are trouble. No doubt about that."
He stepped up behind them and placed both hands on the railing—arms bracketing them, his size turning them into two small figures sheltered inside his shadow. It was almost absurdly protective, whether he intended it or not.
Patricia turned her head up, eyes shining.
Elise did the same, cheeks pink from wind and triumph.
"Are we really…" Patricia whispered, as if afraid the word might vanish, "…your maids now?"
Oskar stared out at the river, then down at them.
"…Sure," he said, dry as sand. "Why not."
They both smiled—soft, relieved smiles that cracked something in their faces.
Patricia's eyes turned watery.
Elise blinked hard, as if embarrassed by her own emotion.
Oskar patted their heads—once each—like he was accepting an unusually loud pair of strays into his household.
And for a moment, standing there while Britain shrank behind them, he couldn't deny it:
They looked… happy.
And oddly—so did he.
Behind them, his men still looked baffled.
No one had recognized them. The oversized coats and disheveled hair helped. Oskar intended to keep it that way.
But as the river widened and the sea wind began to taste sharper, Oskar's mind slid backward to the previous evening—the naval review of 20 May 1910.
It had been magnificent. Awe-inspiring. A parade of steel meant to convince the world that Britain's dominance would last another century.
And yet…
Oskar understood what it truly was.
Not confidence.
Uncertainty.
Britain was still powerful, yes—but powerful the way an aging lion was powerful: roaring louder because it could feel younger predators moving in the grass.
The world had watched the ships and believed the roar.
Oskar had heard the fear beneath it.
He glanced down at the princess pressed close at his side, at Elise smiling through windblown hair.
A card.
Not a good one.
Not a strong one.
But a card nonetheless.
And if the world insisted on burning itself in four years…
then perhaps having one more card—however absurd—was better than having none.
He just had to pray these two would behave, and not be found out.
Because if they didn't…
he truly be in big trouble.