The cold fog of early spring had not yet lifted from the Neva River. Morning mist curled along the palace gardens as Alexander Nikolaevich strode briskly toward the northern gatehouse, flanked by a single guard and followed at a distance by his ever-silent valet, Konstantin.
He wasn't supposed to leave the palace without an escort of four.
He wasn't supposed to meet merchants without approval from his father's council.
And he most certainly wasn't supposed to walk the streets of St. Petersburg unannounced, speaking to tradesmen like a commoner.
But none of that mattered now.
He was meeting opportunity.
The old carriage he'd arranged—a dusty black thing without royal markings—waited quietly by the gate. Inside sat a man Alexander had only corresponded with through intermediaries: Mikhail Yegorovich Baryshkin, a moderately successful soapmaker who owned two small workshops along the Fontanka Canal. He was clever, literate, and, most importantly, ambitious.
Alexander climbed into the carriage and sat across from him.
"You didn't bring guards," Mikhail noted.
"I brought money," Alexander replied, producing a sealed packet from inside his coat. "And an opportunity."
The merchant blinked. His hands—callused from years of labor—hovered over the wax seal but did not open it. "What kind of opportunity, Your Highness?"
"A factory," Alexander said simply. "Not a workshop. A real factory. Soap in industrial quantities. Standardized, scented, wrapped, branded. Delivered in crates, not baskets. Sold not only to nobles, but to every soldier, every housemaid, every farmwife with a kopeck."
Mikhail stared. "There's no market for that."
"There isn't yet," Alexander countered. "But there will be. Cleanliness is coming into fashion among the educated. Doctors whisper of contagion. Priests preach purity. If we make soap a symbol—an affordable symbol—of modernity, they'll buy."
Mikhail leaned back, skeptical. "And what does Your Highness want in return?"
"Ten percent ownership. Silent. You'll use my funds to expand. Hire better workers. Train more apprentices. In exchange, you'll also take on… side work."
Mikhail's brow furrowed. "What kind of side work?"
Alexander pulled out a second document. Not a contract, but a list: names of chemistry students, failed pharmacists, and blacklisted inventors. "You'll hire these men. Discreetly. They'll work in a backroom. They'll conduct experiments under the cover of perfumery and fragrance testing."
Mikhail whistled softly. "You're building more than soap."
"I'm building infrastructure," Alexander said, voice low. "One small industry at a time. I need loyal partners outside court politics. You'll be one of the first."
The merchant hesitated only a second longer—then broke the seal.
Later that day, Alexander returned to the Winter Palace by a side entrance. He changed coats. Washed his hands. Ate a proper breakfast under the gaze of three noblewomen who still whispered about him as if he were a boy.
But his mind was already miles away—back in the factory that didn't yet exist.
That evening, during a routine "history" lesson with his English tutor, Alexander interrupted the session.
"Tell me," he asked, "how did Britain's early manufacturers train engineers before formal institutions?"
The man blinked, startled. "Apprenticeships, my Prince. Often informal. Passed down within guilds."
"Good," Alexander said. "Then we'll need a guild. Or something like it."
Two weeks later, under the name of Imperial Hygiene Concern, Mikhail Baryshkin quietly purchased an unused textile warehouse on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. No permits bore the Prince's name. No couriers carried royal crests.
But the funding flowed. Equipment was ordered. Cauldrons installed. Fats rendered. Fragrances tested.
And in a backroom of the factory, shielded from the curious eyes of both nobles and censors, two young men tested alkali reactions on iron trays, arguing over lye strength and moisture ratios.
Back at court, Alexander sat through yet another dull lecture on Latin grammar, nodding politely as his tutor droned on about ablative forms.
He didn't mind. The man's voice made for good cover as he scribbled ideas into the margins of his book.
Next Step:
-Use factory output to supply army camps (clean soldiers = healthier soldiers).
- Introduce small tax incentives for merchant cleanliness standards.
- Encourage local clergy to promote soap as a "Christian virtue."
- Trial soap donations to poor districts to build demand (and goodwill).
The plan was working. Slowly. Quietly.
But one seed planted in the right soil could become a tree.