Chapter 21: Voices in the Square

The air in Tsarskoye Selo carried a sharp chill, but Alexander paid it no mind as his carriage rattled over cobbled streets. A small crowd had gathered near the schoolhouse he had quietly funded through private channels. Children in woolen coats stood stiffly in rows beside their mothers, who bowed deeply as he stepped down.

He didn't wear full military regalia today—just a fur-lined greatcoat and a navy-blue tunic. This visit wasn't about ceremony. It was about being seen.

"Your Imperial Highness," said the local governor, flushed with both cold and nervous energy. "It is an honor. The teachers are inside, if you wish to see the—"

"No." Alexander raised a hand politely. "I wish to speak to the parents. And the children."

The official blinked. "The… commoners?"

Alexander turned toward the gathered villagers. "They are not 'common,' governor. They are the future of Russia."

That line had been carefully rehearsed, written late into the night with Witte's help. But the effect was genuine: the women straightened. The children looked wide-eyed. One of them—a girl with a red scarf—held a potato like a prize.

Alexander smiled. "Is that for me?"

The girl looked to her mother, then stepped forward and offered it with both hands.

"It's from the harvest. Papa said you helped us plant the new ones," she said.

"I only gave advice," Alexander replied, accepting it gently. "You and your family did the real work."

That moment—simple, quiet, unscripted—was captured by a royal artist hidden in the crowd. The image would be distributed to schools and reading halls across the western provinces within the month.

Later, in the manor he used as a temporary headquarters, Alexander reviewed reports beside Witte and his new appointee to the Bureau of Public Works—a young but shrewd bureaucrat named Ivan Belyaev, known for his work in municipal water planning in Novgorod.

"This bureau will be the backbone of the Empire's recovery," Alexander said. "Sanitation, drainage, school construction, road repair. Everything that lifts the people."

Witte looked skeptical. "You're building a civil state inside an autocracy."

"Yes," Alexander said without hesitation. "And when the time comes, it will be too large and too effective to dismantle."

Belyaev nodded. "I've already begun recruiting clerks and overseers from among the literate classes—not just nobles, but professionals, tradesmen, even retired soldiers. We'll train them in logistics and administration."

"Good," Alexander replied. "But train them in purpose, too. Tell them why this matters."

Witte smirked faintly. "The nobles are grumbling, Your Highness. They say you're encouraging peasant ambition. That you'll stir rebellion."

"I'm giving them food, education, clean water, and dignity," Alexander said. "If that causes rebellion, the fault lies not with me."

That evening, back in his study, Alexander read over a letter from a nobleman in Yaroslavl. The man accused him of undermining Russia's "sacred hierarchy" by visiting peasants and giving them hope of upward mobility.

He didn't bother replying.

Instead, he penned a memo to his confidential printing bureau, the one Witte helped him establish with loyal liberal scholars.

Begin publication of pamphlets under the title: "The Heart of the Empire." Focus on stories of improving village life, education, and loyalty to the Tsarevich. Avoid direct attacks on the nobility, but imply that progress and tradition can coexist. Place copies in post offices, parish halls, and schools.

Propaganda, yes—but truthful propaganda. A tool to shape the minds of a nation long abused by silence and suspicion.

Weeks passed.

The Bureau of Public Works expanded. New teachers were deployed to model towns. Simple water pumps were installed in two rural districts. And a small-scale vaccination campaign—started quietly to avoid church outrage—began saving children from smallpox in three counties.

And yet, opposition brewed.

In candlelit salons and grand halls, the nobles whispered.

"He's building a ministry for peasants."

"He spends more time with schoolmasters than guardsmen."

"Mark my words—he'll crown himself not Tsar of Russia, but Tsar of the rabble."

Alexander heard these whispers, often before they'd fully left the drawing room. His network of informants was growing.

But he didn't move to crush them.

Not yet.

On the final night of the month, he met again with Witte and Belyaev, along with an invited guest: Pavel Tretyakov, a wealthy textile merchant with a deep interest in art and social reform.

"I want your help funding and overseeing the next phase," Alexander said plainly. "A partnership between the Crown, industry, and civic actors. Local workshops. Public contracts for cloth, tools, and school materials. You'll profit, yes—but so will the people."

Tretyakov studied him. "A Tsarevich offering state power in exchange for moral industry. That is… new."

"It is necessary," Alexander said. "And soon, inevitable."

Witte raised a glass. "To the new Russia," he said dryly.

"No," Alexander replied.

"To the real one."