Chapter 19: Eyes from Afar, Hands at Home

The late spring sun filtered through the tall windows of the Winter Palace as Alexander Nikolaevich reviewed the latest intelligence briefings. The faint scent of ink and wax mingled with the sharper tang of salt brought by the breeze from the Neva River. He barely noticed.

A coded report lay open before him. It bore the mark of Obolensky's intelligence bureau.

"French naval engineers sighted in Istanbul. British merchant agents investigating port infrastructure in Odessa. Increased interest in southern rail projects noted by Austrian diplomats."

He read the last line twice, then set it down and leaned back, fingers steepled.

"Even our railways attract attention," he said aloud.

Across the table, Sergei Witte nodded grimly. "They know you're building something. They just don't know what. Yet."

Alexander's lips thinned. "That ignorance won't last. If they believe we're preparing for war, they'll accelerate their own plans. We need to move faster—but also quieter."

Witte shifted forward. "Then perhaps it's time we broaden our internal front. Not with armies—but with industry."

Alexander tilted his head, intrigued. "Go on."

"There's a textile district near Tula," Witte said. "Neglected, but ideal. Close to both river and rail. What if we fund a pilot industrial site—modern looms, steam power, decent wages, even worker schooling?"

Alexander's brows rose. "Another model town?"

Witte shook his head. "A model factory. Let the nobles dismiss it as commerce. But in truth? It'll be a forge—of loyal workers, skilled engineers, and exportable goods."

Alexander smiled, the fire kindling behind his eyes. "Then let's build it. And name it discreetly. Call it 'The Volunteer Project.'"

That same week, foreign tensions continued to simmer.

At a discreet dinner with the Tsar, Alexander raised the subject gently.

"Father, the Ottoman situation continues to deteriorate," he said over roast lamb. "The British grow anxious about the Straits. Perhaps we should reinforce our position at Sevastopol—not with troops, but with grain shipments and medical supplies. Peaceful, humanitarian."

Nicholas I gave him a sharp look. "You think the West would believe such a gesture?"

"No," Alexander admitted. "But it would confuse them. And confusion buys time."

The Tsar chewed silently, then finally grunted. "Proceed, but don't attract too much attention."

Alexander bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Father."

Meanwhile, construction began on the Tula textile works.

Over a hundred workers were employed within weeks—many veterans from Novograd. Steam engines arrived from Germany. Witte brought in Scottish mechanics to train Russian apprentices. On Alexander's orders, every child under fourteen working there received two hours of reading and arithmetic lessons each day.

When a skeptical noble asked Witte if this experiment wasn't too "idealistic," Witte merely smiled. "Idealism, sir, would be doing nothing."

The factory's first cotton bolts—fine, strong, and evenly woven—were completed by early summer. A batch was gifted to the Tsarina herself. She declared them "of fine taste and modern sensibility," and wore a shawl made from the fabric to a royal ball.

Suddenly, nobles weren't laughing anymore.

Yet even as the domestic winds shifted, darker clouds gathered abroad.

Obolensky delivered a new report to Alexander in his private study.

"French agents seen surveying southern fortifications. British naval presence near Malta increased. Ottoman diplomats whisper of a 'Northern push.'"

Alexander paced. "They're preparing for escalation. Or baiting us into overreacting."

"We can't respond overtly," Obolensky warned. "But… we could try distraction."

Alexander turned. "Such as?"

"Feed a rumor. Let it slip that your interests lie in the East. Turkestan, Persia, trade routes. It might divert some attention away from Crimea."

Alexander chuckled. "You're suggesting I become a magician."

Obolensky shrugged. "Politics often is."

Later that week, Alexander visited the growing model factory in Tula. The train ride was short, but the scene that met him upon arrival left him silent.

Children recited letters in a corner of the yard. Women fed fabric into gleaming new looms. Steam hissed and wheels turned. Order, progress, and discipline danced together like clockwork.

Witte joined him, dusting soot from his gloves. "We've increased output by thirty percent in two weeks. Demand is already outpacing supply."

Alexander walked the length of the floor, nodding at each worker. One, a young girl with braided hair and a patched dress, looked up from her reading slate and beamed.

"My lord," she said, "I can write my name now."

Alexander stopped.

"What is it?" he asked gently.

"Anya," she said proudly. "Before, I didn't know letters. Now I write."

He smiled and touched her shoulder. "Anya, you are the future of Russia."

As the train carried him back to Saint Petersburg that evening, Alexander stared out the window as forests blurred past.

"They will come for us," he murmured to Witte. "Britain, France, the old guard here at home. They'll strike when they sense we've grown too bold."

Witte said nothing.

Alexander turned, a slight smile on his lips. "Let them come. We won't just survive—we'll be ready."