Chapter 280: Rumors And War

At the sound of the princess’s voice, Francisco’s expression tightened.

He understood at once what lay beneath her tone. It was not mere politeness—nor simple curiosity. It was persuasion, carefully measured. In another time, under other circumstances, he might have found it compelling. After all, the Russian Empire stood, in the present day, as one of the foremost examples of enlightened reform. A court that welcomed knowledge. A nation that spoke the language of progress.

By reputation, it was admirable.

But Francisco knew better.

He knocked.

The conversation within ceased, and a moment later the door opened. Catalina turned at once, leaving aside the glass instruments she had been handling.

“My dear—what brings you here?” she asked, surprised.

Francisco smiled at the sight of her.

There was, in that brief moment, a quiet awareness—one he rarely allowed himself. He was not, by most measures, a devoted husband in the ordinary sense. His time was consumed by study, by experiment, by the endless pursuit of knowledge within the halls of Göttingen. What little time remained was often given to rest—and even that, not always. More than once, he had slept beside his work rather than return home.

Yet Catalina had remained.

Patient. Steady. Loyal.

It was a fortune he did not take lightly.

“I came to see you,” he said simply.

His gaze then shifted—to the princess.

His expression did not change. The smile remained, polite and measured. Only beneath it, unseen, lay a trace of resistance. He had heard enough to understand the nature of their exchange—and the intent behind it.

Under ordinary circumstances, such rumors might have led to conflict. A harsher man might have arrived in anger, asserting authority in a way too often mistaken for strength. Others, weaker in disposition, might have yielded entirely—following where they were led, particularly when faced with rank and influence greater than their own.

Francisco did neither.

“Good day, Your Highness,” he said, with composed formality. “I have come to take my wife for the afternoon—if you will permit it. We have matters to attend… in private.”

For a brief instant, Princess Vorontsova-Dashkova did not respond.

Her hand remained near the worktable, her posture unchanged.

In the courts she knew—the world of the Romanovs, of Prussia—a man confronted with such a situation would have chosen one of two paths: dominance, loud and unquestioned… or submission, equally plain.

This… was neither.

Francisco’s calm was not weakness.

It was control.

“I understand, Monsieur Francisco,” the princess said at last, her voice smooth, her expression gracious. “I am pleased you may spend time together.”

She turned her attention briefly to Catalina.

“If you require assistance, you may call upon me.”

The words were kind.

The intent, less so.

Francisco recognized it immediately—a subtle attempt to place distance between them, to suggest influence where none yet existed.

Catalina, however, did not.

“I am quite well for now,” she replied, unaware of the undercurrent. “Though perhaps, in a few weeks, you might assist us with the next experiment.”

The princess inclined her head.

“Of course.”

The smile remained—but it carried, now, the faintest trace of strain.

A moment later, she withdrew.

When the door closed, the room seemed to exhale.

For the first time, they were alone.

Francisco stepped closer and kissed Catalina lightly before speaking.

“You must be cautious around her,” he said.

Catalina frowned slightly, confusion plain in her expression.

“Why?” she asked. “What cause would she have to act so?”

Francisco hesitated only briefly—then explained.

The princess inclined her head, smiling still—though beneath it, there was a trace of quiet displeasure. She said nothing further, and after a brief moment, withdrew from the laboratory.

When the door closed behind her, the room seemed to settle.

At last, Francisco and Catalina were alone.

Francisco stepped closer and kissed her gently before speaking.

“You must be careful around the princess.”

Catalina frowned slightly, still uncertain.

“Careful? Why?” she asked.

Francisco took a slow breath, then began to explain—how the rumors of her accepting the invitation had already reached the director, how he had been summoned to account for it, and how, under ordinary circumstances, most husbands would have reacted very differently. He spoke of how the university itself had taken notice, and how such attention was rarely without consequence.

As he spoke, Catalina’s expression shifted—confusion giving way to surprise.

“But… why would she do something like that?” she asked at last.

Francisco smiled faintly, though there was bitterness in it.

“Because I am not the only one worth taking.”

He paused, then continued more carefully.

“You have discovered a promising treatment for smallpox. You may not yet understand its full significance, but this disease has taken more lives than any war. To master it…”—he hesitated briefly—”is to change the balance of nations.”

Catalina remained silent, listening closely.

“If a ruler controls such a cure,” Francisco went on, “they control more than health. They influence population, strength, even the future growth of their state. And even if no further cures come, the knowledge itself—the studies, the experiments—would strengthen their scholars for generations.”

He looked at her directly.

“To a king or a queen, it matters little whether the mind behind such work belongs to a man or a woman. Only that it exists.”

Catalina hesitated, then asked:

“Do you think the Tsarina herself is interested in my work?”

Francisco nodded.

“You underestimate your value. The scorn of jealous scholars may blind you, but rulers do not share such blindness. In their eyes, your knowledge is… extremely valuable.”

Catalina frowned, thinking.

“But then… would it not be safer to go?” she asked. “If I am valuable, they would protect me.”

Francisco let out a quiet, dry chuckle.

“Yes. They would protect you.”

A short pause followed.

“And you would never be allowed to leave.”

The words lingered.

“In other countries,” he continued, “one might appeal to scholars, or exert pressure through reputation. But in Russia…”—he shook his head slightly—”the Empress herself is the authority. There is no higher voice to counter her will. Even if others wished to help you, they could not.”

Catalina lowered her gaze, disappointment evident.

“So… we cannot travel after all.”

Francisco shrugged slightly.

“It is not that we cannot,” he said. “But if we do, it must be done carefully. Quietly—without drawing attention to who we are.”

He paused, considering.

“Of course, that carries its own dangers. The alternative would be to travel openly, but then we would need status—enough to justify protection. Enough to move with guards.”

A faint, tired smile crossed his face.

“That, as you can imagine, is not simple.”

He paused again, then added:

“We might consider the Low Countries—”

Catalina looked at him, surprised.

“You have not heard the news?”

Francisco frowned. “What news?”

She shook her head.

“The Low Countries are under attack by the French Republic. And they are losing badly. Did you not notice, on your way from the university? There are more refugees arriving every day—people fleeing from there.”

Francisco fell silent.

For a moment, everything aligned.

He had believed the director’s distress came solely from the rumors surrounding Catalina and Russia. But now—

The refugees.

The strain on Göttingen.

Its fragile autonomy.

Hannover could not support them as before. Though the region still had its industries, its capacity to generate wealth, the sudden influx would test its limits.

Francisco’s expression grew sharper.

He began to pace slowly, his thoughts moving with increasing urgency.

“In times of peace,” he said, “steel of high quality is a luxury—for instruments, for fine work. But in war…”

He stopped.

“It becomes necessity.”

He turned back toward Catalina.

“If I can demonstrate that my ’Blue Flame’ process produces greater yield than a traditional puddling furnace—using less charcoal—”

He gestured faintly, as if tracing the implications in the air.

“Then we do not merely possess a business. We possess leverage.”

He continued, more focused now.

“With sufficient production, we could influence supply. And if Göttingen holds that supply…”—he paused—”then even Hannover must consider its position carefully. If something were to happen to me, or to the process, the flow could be interrupted. At least for a time.”

Another brief pause.

“In such a case, they would think twice before supporting certain actions of their sovereign UK”

He exhaled slowly.

“I must speak with the director.”

He turned, already preparing to leave—then stopped.

His expression softened as he looked back at Catalina.

“Come with me,” he said. “We may speak further on the way.”

A faint, quieter tone followed:

“And we might, at least, spend some time together.”

Catalina’s eyes lit up at once.

A moment before, there had been a trace of disappointment—he had come, only to leave again. But now, with his invitation, that feeling softened. If nothing else, they would have the afternoon together.

She nodded without hesitation.

—

The walk from the outskirts toward the heart of Göttingen was no longer as Francisco remembered it.

What had once been a quiet, scholarly path—marked by measured conversation and the steady rhythm of academic life—had changed.

The October air remained crisp, yet it carried with it a different weight. The scent of damp woodsmoke lingered heavily, mingled with something less tolerable—the stale, unwashed presence of too many people gathered too closely, with nowhere else to go.

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