Chapter 8: Bricks and Books

The snowmelt came early that year. By mid-March, the gutters of St. Petersburg overflowed with gray slush and refuse, pushing the stink of the city into the fine salons of the aristocracy. While nobles complained of the odor spoiling their imported wines, Alexander Nikolaevich saw opportunity.

He was nineteen now—technically a man by court standards, though still seen by most as a student, a prince-in-waiting. But inside, Alexander carried decades of buried memory: the typhoid outbreaks of his first life, the cramped alleys of industrial slums, the hidden power of sewers and soap.

He would not wait for a crown to act.

In a modest administrative chamber in the Engineering School near the Liteyny Prospekt, Alexander unfurled a set of sketches across the table.

Public latrines. Filtered water pumps. Covered drains.

Colonel Obolensky, his advisor and now co-conspirator, leaned over the table with a raised brow. "These are sewer plans."

"Correct," Alexander replied. "Scaled for high-density urban quarters. Start with three districts—Kazan, Sennaya, and the outskirts of Vyborg. The worst hit when cholera returns."

"You'll need approval. Municipal budgets."

"No." Alexander tapped the edge of the paper. "We'll use revenue from the soap venture to pilot it. Quietly. If it works, others will take credit—and I'll let them."

Obolensky stared for a long moment, then cracked a rare smile. "You're learning court politics quickly, Your Highness."

"Better to give away praise than power," Alexander said. "Let the Duma think it was their idea when the time comes."

Obolensky gathered the plans. "I'll start with a reliable foreman."

That same week, Alexander turned his attention to something even more fragile: the minds of Russia's children.

In a parlor of the Ministry of Education, he sat with Count Uvarov, the long-serving Minister whose strict, conservative education model emphasized Orthodox values and aristocratic hierarchy.

Alexander sipped tea with feigned deference.

"We teach boys to memorize catechisms and Latin declensions," he said lightly. "But not how to read a blueprint. Or balance a ledger."

Uvarov narrowed his eyes. "You propose vocational studies?"

"I propose practical ones. Arithmetic, mechanics, chemistry. Start in trade cities—Odessa, Nizhny, Yaroslavl. Places where the economy needs thinkers, not just titles."

The older man gave a tight-lipped smile. "And what of their souls, Tsarevich?"

Alexander matched his tone. "Faith is the root. But even roots must be fed. A starving man cannot pray on an empty stomach—or an empty mind."

The meeting ended cordially, if cautiously. Uvarov promised to "consider" the proposals, which in court language meant, Wait and see if you succeed without me.

Alexander had no intention of waiting.

A week later, he hosted a gathering in a newly renovated wing of the Alexander Lyceum—an elite school now outfitted with a small chemistry lab and a printing press. Guests included mid-tier nobles, curious industrialists, and a few foreign tutors.

They watched as a group of teenage students, sons of minor landowners and merchants, demonstrated basic chemistry reactions and calculated mechanical force using hand-cranked devices.

The nobles applauded politely.

The merchants clapped in earnest.

Alexander caught one of them murmuring, "If my factory had men who could do that…"

Success, however modest.

Back in his study that night, Alexander stared at a city map by candlelight. His pilot sanitation district was underway. Education reforms would trickle in slowly—one lesson plan at a time. No decrees. No speeches. Just action, through side doors and back alleys.

Zhukovsky entered quietly. "The Tsar was briefed on your Lyceum event."

Alexander looked up.

"Is he angry?"

"No. Intrigued. But watchful."

Alexander nodded. "Let him watch. As long as the Empire improves, he can take the credit."

Outside, St. Petersburg slept uneasily beneath the thaw. The gutters still overflowed. The poor still coughed in silence. But under the stone, new pipes were being laid. And in forgotten schoolhouses, children began to ask why.

It wasn't a revolution.

Not yet.

But it was a beginning.