Rain swept through the alleys of St. Petersburg like a penitent crowd, drumming against the cathedral domes and palace roofs alike. The skies were dark, but the mood in certain chambers of power was darker still.
At the Holy Synod, Patriarch Filaret leaned heavily on his cane, the letter in his hand trembling not from age, but from agitation.
"He proposes teaching hygiene and mathematics in every village," the Patriarch growled. "He speaks of teaching girls arithmetic. And he uses the word civics—as if Russia were some Athenian experiment."
The gathered metropolitans nodded grimly.
"Does the Tsar know of this?" asked one.
"Not yet. But he will. And he will not approve of this."
The Patriarch raised the letter again, written in Alexander's firm, elegant hand. Its respectful tone did little to soften its revolutionary edge. The Church had long guarded education in rural Russia, viewing literacy through the lens of salvation, not citizenship. For a Tsarevich—even a youthful one—to speak of curricula and secular teachers was... unsettling.
Meanwhile, in a candlelit hall of the Sheremetev estate, a different kind of fury was building.
"You heard what he said?" Count Pavel Sheremetev barked to the dozen noblemen seated before him. "Schools in every village.Bookkeeping for peasants. Next he'll be giving them voting slips."
Grumbles rose.
"He's young," another count muttered. "Perhaps idealistic."
"Then he must be corrected," Sheremetev snapped. "Already he's consorting with foreign engineers, merchants, even minor Jews and dissenters. He threatens our privileges while pretending it's for the good of the Empire."
A silence fell. Finally, an elder duke leaned forward.
"The boy has the Tsar's ear. But not his full trust. We write. We warn. Not of rebellion—but of... instability."
"'A seed may grow into a tree,'" Sheremetev said. "But we may still decide what soil it grows in."
The next morning, Alexander received two letters—one from the Synod, the other unsigned but clearly penned by a noble coalition. Both were veiled threats.
The first urged "caution against overstepping the spiritual guardianship of Russia's holy traditions." The second warned of "social disarray" and "a weakening of the necessary bonds between master and subject."
He folded both without comment.
In response, he sent invitations.
Within the week, he hosted a modest gathering in the Gatchina Palace—scholars, minor clergy, reform-minded nobles, and a few bold merchants. The room buzzed with the scent of ink, tobacco, and subtle defiance.
He stood before a wide blackboard with chalk in hand.
"Education," he said plainly, "is not rebellion. It is prevention."
A few heads tilted.
"A child who learns how to clean his hands will not die of cholera. A peasant who learns how to manage a budget will not fall into lifelong debt. A priest who can explain scripture and basic science will not lose his flock to foreign charlatans."
He paused. "What we fear—uprising, sedition, collapse—is not caused by too much knowledge, but too little."
He wrote on the board: 'Light is not treason.'
There was silence, then a quiet clap—from Dostoevsky himself, newly arrived and half-disbelieving that the heir to the Russian throne quoted his words.
In the days to come, rumors swirled through the capital.
That the Tsarevich would open village schools. That he had angered the Synod. That nobles were preparing to denounce him before the Tsar.
That he had spoken of cholera and clerics in the same breath.
But Alexander remained calm.
He had not yet won power. But already, he had drawn lines.
And lines, once drawn, had a way of becoming roads.