Queen Victoria's "lesson" had unsettled something within Olga.
It had not merely amused her. It had armed her.
Yet what she had not foreseen was that her dear friend—, Arthur Lionheart—would move from theory to orchestration with ruthless efficiency.
The Royal Cruise
On the third day of the garden festivities, the court assembled for a royal cruise upon the River Thames.
At the royal pier near Buckingham Palace, a fleet of elegant river craft awaited departure, draped in bunting and royal colors. Liveried oarsmen stood poised with ceremonial discipline.
For "security reasons," it had been announced, each boat would carry only two distinguished guests, accompanied by a single royal rower.
The pairings would be determined—so it was said—by lottery.
Arthur Lionheart himself oversaw the drawing.
Naturally, the results had been decided the previous evening.
By what appeared to be delightful coincidence, Grand Duchess Olga found her name paired with Archduke Stephan of Austria.
She felt her pulse leap.
Stephan, upon reading the card, displayed a convincing expression of startled surprise—though the faint brightness in his eyes betrayed something dangerously close to hope.
Arthur, observing from a distance, merely adjusted his gloves.
The river shimmered beneath pale spring sunlight as the royal flotilla began its stately progress downstream.
They passed the dignified domes of Old Royal Naval College, and farther along, the ancient silhouette of the Tower of London rose against the horizon.
Empire, memory, execution.
Britain always preferred its symbols visible.
A Convenient Accident
Olga and Stephan sat side by side at the bow.
Silence stretched between them—fragile but not unpleasant.
Remembering Victoria's instruction, Olga deliberately turned her gaze toward the riverbanks, adopting a composed detachment. Mystery, not eagerness.
Stephan's confidence wavered instantly.
Had he offended her? Was she disappointed?
Before he could muster fresh courage—
A sudden crack resounded from the stern.
The oarsman exclaimed theatrically.
"My apologies, Your Imperial Highness! The oar—damn it—it seems caught!"
A sharp report followed.
The oak blade snapped cleanly in two.
The boat, robbed of power, drifted gently away from the main procession, carried toward a quieter bend thick with reeds.
The rower clutched his cap in exaggerated distress.
"There is a small landing ahead, Your Highnesses. We shall wait there. I have already signaled the fleet."
He retreated to the stern, where he proceeded to "inspect" the irreparable oar with suspicious diligence.
Olga and Stephan exchanged a look.
Olga was not naïve. She had seen Arthur's expression that morning—too mild, too controlled.
This was no accident.
Stephan, however, believed entirely in divine opportunity.
The boat glided toward a secluded stone jetty bordered by wild grass and whispering reeds. The noise of the main channel faded, replaced by wind and water.
Isolation.
Privacy.
Possibility.
The Conversation
They seated themselves upon a wooden bench overlooking the quiet current.
"I have heard," Stephan began carefully, "that Your Highness loves music."
Olga's composure softened.
"Yes. Since childhood. I prefer Chopin. His nocturnes feel… like confessions whispered at dusk."
Stephan's expression brightened.
"Chopin has power as well. The Revolutionary Étude—when I leave the debates at the Diet in Pozsony, I return to it often. It reminds me that passion is not weakness."
They spoke of Frédéric Chopin, of Ludwig van Beethoven, of Richard Wagner and Franz Schubert.
The air warmed between them.
Encouraged, Stephan allowed instinct—and rehearsal—to guide him.
In flawless Russian, he began softly:
"I remember that golden hour,
When hearts stood unafraid.
Dusk fell—we stood together,
The Danube whispered in the shade."
Olga froze.
He spoke her language.
Perfectly.
Her breath trembled as she absorbed the imagery.
Not the Thames.
The Danube.
His homeland.
A bridge between worlds.
What she did not know was that the verses had been supplied the previous evening by Arthur Lionheart himself—who had presented them as a "recent draft" and advised Stephan, with almost paternal generosity, to employ them wisely.
Arthur had once dazzled Victoria with borrowed poetry of his own.
History rewarded those who understood timing.
"Did… did you write that?" Olga asked in a whisper.
Stephan hesitated only a fraction of a second.
"Yes," he said quietly. "From the heart."
The admiration in her gaze fed his courage.
She saw not a hesitant archduke but a cultivated soul—melancholic, intelligent, sensitive.
Far removed from the coarse political suitors she had endured.
Their conversation deepened.
Olga spoke—carefully at first—of her fatigue with political marriages, of feeling like a chess piece arranged by paternal decree.
Stephan confessed his frustrations in Vienna: how his liberal sympathies for Hungary had earned him quiet obstruction, how conservative ministers dismissed him as naïve.
Two idealists, restrained by dynasties, found recognition in one another.
"You are fortunate," Stephan said softly. "In St. Petersburg, you are loved."
Olga smiled faintly.
"And you?"
He gave a bitter laugh.
"In Vienna, I am tolerated. In Pozsony, I am resisted. I exist between expectations."
She turned toward him fully now.
"You are not alone in that."
The words were simple.
But they landed with weight.
Across the Water
Far upstream, aboard another vessel, Arthur Lionheart stood beside Queen Victoria.
Victoria glanced toward the distant bend where the drifting boat had vanished.
"You are certain this will work?" she asked lightly.
Arthur's expression remained serene.
"Austria needs emotional validation. Russia needs reassurance. Britain needs influence."
Victoria smiled. "And romance?"
Arthur's gaze softened briefly as he looked at her.
"Romance," he said quietly, "is merely diplomacy conducted with better lighting."
She laughed.
On the quiet riverbank, Olga and Stephan sat closer than before.
Unaware that their solitude had been engineered.
Unaware that empire drifted not far behind them.
Yet perhaps—just perhaps—within the carefully arranged circumstance, something genuine had begun to bloom.
Arthur would not interfere with that.
Authentic emotion made the strongest alliances.
And if two lonely hearts could be guided toward each other—
Then Britain would gain not merely a treaty.
But a future secured by affection.