Chapter Text
Maybe we are together in a parallel universe
- from "Destiny Rules" by Fleetwood Mac
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In the spring of 1919, the king of England, flush with victory from the recent conclusion to the war, invites the emperor of Austria-Hungary to London on a state visit.
They've been allies for the better part of two years, ever since Aleksandar came to the throne and promptly removed his country from the war – an unpopular move with his granduncle's government, but certainly appreciated by the starving, battle-weary citizens. Austrian neutrality, to Britain, was well worth a few shipments of grain from India. And now, in the wake of the Versailles treaty, continued Austrian goodwill is worth a few weeks of playing host.
Alek hesitates in accepting: "There's too much for me to do here," he tells Volger.
"Go," Volger says, pragmatic as always. "Germany has gone to hell, Italy is gnawing at our borders, and God knows what the Russians will do once they get themselves sorted. We need to keep Britain as an ally. My advice, Your Majesty, would be to find Princess Mary appealing and open marriage negotiations."
Alek goes.
He does not find Princess Mary appealing.
There's nothing wrong with Mary – she's close in age, pretty, well-mannered, pleasant in her conversation. But he knows straightaway that he's not going to make any overtures for her hand. (Her fondness for the fabricated dog-like animals constantly yipping at her feet has nothing to do with it, or so he tells himself.)
His state visit is otherwise a great success. He goes shooting with the king, attends dinners, receptions, balls, galas. He takes in theater performances, operas, symphonies. He tours the London Zoo and its collection of Darwinist oddities. Everywhere he goes he is unfailingly polite and diplomatic, and everyone bows and treats him with perfect deference.
But the formal events bore him, the creatures unnerve him, and he becomes restless, thinking of the thousand and one things he ought to be doing in Vienna. The reforms he's been championing – the ones his father first developed – need his presence to succeed against the hard-liners.
He begins to resent Britain for keeping him away from home.
He almost doesn't go to the last party, as he'll be leaving at the end of the week and could plausibly plead other business; but Lord Oxenford is a member of Parliament and one of the few Brits who's unabashedly pro-Clanker. It would be poor form indeed to slight the man.
Lord and Lady Oxenford are delighted by the emperor's presence. Alek accepts their gratitude, says complimentary things about their home, and drifts through the crowd of other guests, marking time.
Until.
Someone laughs.
It's a woman's laugh, loud and unselfconscious and cutting through the inane party chatter, and it makes heads turn – Alek's among them.
He's grown since he was fifteen, but he's no taller than his father was, and he can't quite see the woman through the screen of the other guests. People move, and he catches a glimpse of bright blonde hair.
"Who on earth is that?" he asks a nearby society matron.
She fawns and frets all at once. "Oh, Your Majesty, of course you wouldn't have heard… That's a certain Miss Sharp. She must have come uninvited; I can't imagine that anyone here would have asked her."
Unseen, Miss Sharp laughs again. Alek finds himself smiling at the sound and stifles the expression. "She sounds very scandalous."
The matron sniffs. "Oh, that she most certainly is, Your Majesty! They say," she adds, dropping her voice, "that she snuck aboard an airship at the start of that dreadful war, and stayed there, disguised as a boy soldier. Imagine! Why, it's almost too shocking to comprehend. She ought to be locked away. At the very least disowned by her family."
Alek tries to see Miss Sharp again. "Yes," he says. "Quite shocking. Excuse me, madam."
He makes his way across the room to where he last saw Miss Sharp, who sounds like the most interesting thing he's heard of in ages. She's still there, surrounded by a small circle of gentlemen and ladies listening to her tell a war story.
"-just barking lucky that rope didn't break, or I'd still be swimming home," she concludes, grinning widely, and her male listeners chuckle while the female ones merely look scandalized. Someone notices Alek, and a ripple of attention spreads through the immediate area. Miss Sharp turns to see him.
She's tall for a woman – they're of an equal height – and stands with her back straight and shoulders square. Confident. Her blonde hair is very short, and she would have made, he thinks, rather too pretty a boy to be believed.
Alek gives her a fractional bow. "Please, do not stop on my account."
"All right," Miss Sharp says, and launches into another tale without asking to be introduced or even why everyone is staring, shocked at this breach of etiquette. He's every bit as amazed – does she really not know who he is? Or not care to find out? – but soon becomes caught up in her story.
At first it seems almost fantastical, and he's certain she's exaggerating her involvement in some parts. On the whole, however, her account of the battle of Constantinople sounds remarkably accurate, and when he skeptically presses for details, she supplies them with no evidence of concern that she might be found out for a liar.
The others listeners drift away, but he remains, and soon they are deep into a discussion on the proper use of air power in a land engagement.
He is forgetting his manners – one does not allow one's self to be preoccupied this way; one should continue to circulate throughout the party – but he's too bewildered and amazed to care. A girl who can talk intelligently about military matters!
God's wounds, if she's done half the things she claims… and all while he was trapped in that Swiss castle, or struggling to sit through interminable government meetings. His skepticism begins to give way to something akin to jealousy. What he would give to have lived that life!
Finally she breaks off the conversation to glance around and say, "Blisters, everyone's gawking."
"At me, I'm afraid," he says, cursing himself for attracting the attention. This is the sort of thing that will be gossiped about in parlors across London – and even Vienna, if the news travels well.
She frowns. "Are you that important, then?"
He wants to laugh. "It would appear so."
He expects questions, but what he gets is a conspiratorial, "This party is pure dead boring, isn't it?"
Alek looks at her: Guileless blue eyes, boy-short hair, soldier's stance beneath her dress. "Yes," he admits.
She grins, and suddenly her face is alight with mischief. "I'd imagine you're too important to go skylarking."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a concerned-looking Lord Oxenford beginning to come their way, and inwardly winces. "I can't leave early, if that's what you mean."
"Aye, it is. But you should come to Wormwood Scrubs tomorrow, first thing. I've a balloon there, and I'll take you aloft, if you like. It's a brilliant way to see London."
Again, not a politic idea. But far, far too intriguing to pass up – and for once in his life, he puts caution to the wind and does what he likes.
"All right," he says.
She sticks her hand out. "Deryn Sharp, by the way."
He finds himself shaking her hand, not kissing it as he would have done with any other lady at this party. He also finds himself saying, "Alek," instead of his proper title. There's something appealing in the idea of remaining anonymous with her... at least for a while.
"Alek," she says, grinning. "Tomorrow, then. And bring a coat – the wind's barking cold up there."
Then she bows – bows! like a man! – and walks away.
Alek stares after her for a moment, then turns to meet Lord Oxenford. "I hope you're still enjoying the party, Your Majesty," the man says, somewhat anxiously. "That – er – that young lady was –"
"An interesting diversion," Alek interrupts, with his own conspiratorial smile. Lord Oxenford looks heartened. Alek puts a friendly hand on the man's shoulder and gently, literally, steers him further away from the subject of Miss Sharp: "I understand that Lord Pirrie is here; perhaps you could introduce us."
He drifts through the rest of the party. Polite. Imperial. Marking time.
He wonders what London will look like from the air.