The soft chiming of the Kremlin's imported English clock echoed in the imperial study. Alexander sat at his desk, fingers drumming lightly on the polished oak surface. A single candle flickered in the corner, though the morning sun had begun to rise, casting a pale gold hue over the room. It had been three days since Baron von Schrader's visit, and now it was Britain's turn.
He reviewed the dispatch from his foreign minister once more. The British ambassador, Lord Clanricarde, had requested a private audience with the Tsar—not in a grand hall, but in the more intimate setting of the imperial study. Alexander suspected that the man, an Irish peer and seasoned diplomat, wanted to feel out the young emperor without the pomp of formal ceremony.
The door opened with a gentle knock, and Mikhail Petrov entered.
"Majesty, Lord Clanricarde has arrived."
Alexander stood, smoothing the front of his uniform. "Show him in. And make sure we're not disturbed."
Moments later, Lord Clanricarde entered, a tall man with graying sideburns, a sharp nose, and eyes that carried the chill of British diplomacy. He was dressed impeccably in a black frock coat, a burgundy cravat tucked beneath a silver pin of the Order of the Garter.
"Your Imperial Majesty," he said with a deep bow. "Allow me to express, once more, the condolences of Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the British government on the passing of your father."
"Your words honor his memory," Alexander replied, gesturing to a pair of chairs by the hearth. "Please, sit."
They took their seats, and Alexander poured them each a modest glass of Tokaji wine—Hungarian, but popular even in London.
"I understand you preferred to speak away from the court."
Lord Clanricarde offered a tight smile. "Indeed. Matters of state often benefit from candor."
Alexander nodded. "Then let us speak candidly."
The ambassador leaned forward slightly. "There is concern in London. The sudden demise of Nicholas I and your rapid coronation have left our government wondering about the direction Russia will take."
"An understandable concern."
"More so given your age, Majesty. Eighteen is rather young to rule the largest empire on Earth."
Alexander allowed himself a small smile. "That depends on what kind of eighteen-year-old one is."
Lord Clanricarde chuckled softly. "So it does."
A pause settled between them, filled only by the crackle of the hearth.
"Britain," the ambassador continued, "is committed to stability in Europe. We wish to maintain peace, foster trade, and avoid entanglements that might plunge the continent into conflict again."
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "And yet you contest influence in the Mediterranean, stir interests in the Ottoman territories, and compete fiercely for commercial dominance."
"Competition," Clanricarde said smoothly, "is the lifeblood of progress."
Alexander tilted his head. "Is it also the path to war?"
Clanricarde did not answer immediately. "Only if poorly managed."
"Then let us manage it well, Lord Clanricarde."
The ambassador nodded approvingly. "That is what I hoped to hear. But words must be matched by action. May I ask, Majesty, where you stand on the matter of the Ottoman Empire?"
Alexander thought carefully. The Eastern Question—how to handle the declining Ottoman Empire—was the great conundrum of their age. Britain wanted to preserve it to block Russian expansion. Russia wanted to secure Orthodox Christians and warm water ports.
"I believe the Ottoman Empire is crumbling," Alexander said. "But I also believe that open war over its corpse would devastate Europe."
"So you intend to restrain your ambitions?"
"No, I intend to pursue them wisely."
Lord Clanricarde studied him for a long moment. "There are factions in London who see your Empire as the aggressor in waiting."
"Then perhaps they should look more closely at their own maps."
Clanricarde chuckled again, this time with genuine amusement. "You're not your father's son, are you?"
Alexander smiled faintly. "In some ways. But in others... no."
"Then allow me to offer you something," Clanricarde said, reaching into his coat and producing a folded document. "A draft agreement. Non-binding, of course. An understanding, let's say, on Black Sea navigation rights, merchant traffic, and mutual recognition of spheres of influence in the Balkans."
Alexander took the document and glanced through it. It was cleverly worded—offering much in language but little in commitment. Still, it was a gesture.
"You're trying to gauge how much I understand," he said.
"Every nation does, Majesty. Especially when history pivots on the youth of a single man."
"And what if that man knows more about your empire than you realize?"
Lord Clanricarde raised a brow. "Then perhaps this will be a most interesting reign."
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their wine. Finally, Alexander said, "I will consider your draft."
"Of course. I will remain in Petersburg for the season."
As the ambassador rose to leave, Alexander stood with him. They shook hands.
"Give my regards to Her Majesty the Queen," Alexander said.
"And mine to Russia," Clanricarde replied. "Good day, Your Majesty."
When the door closed behind him, Alexander allowed himself a long exhale.
Petrov reentered quietly. "How did it go, Majesty?"
Alexander handed him the draft agreement. "The British are cautious. But they're watching."
He moved back to the window. Snow had begun to fall lightly over the Neva. The city was white again, blanketed in cold silence.
"Begin assembling my advisors," he said.
"For what purpose, Majesty?"
Alexander turned, eyes sharp.
"For the first phase of reform. And ready a reply to London. They want action—I'll give them something to think about."
Petrov bowed and exited swiftly.
Alone once more, Alexander allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. The knowledge of two centuries ahead—wars, revolutions, the rise and fall of empires—burned within him like a torch in the fog. The challenge was immense, but now, more than ever, he understood the stakes.
Russia could no longer afford to sleep through the future.
With steady hands, the young tsar reached for a map, opened his notebook, and began to write.
The game of empires had entered a new chapter—and he would not be outplayed.