Arthur Lionheart's carriage did not return directly to Buckingham Palace after he left Ada, who now seemed utterly absorbed in her strange new world of "zeros and ones," as if the code itself had swallowed her whole.
Instead, the carriage slipped through several side streets, turning corner after corner until it stopped before a modest little building on Fleet Street.
Above the entrance hung a freshly painted wooden sign, still smelling faintly of varnish:
The Daily Mirror
This was the newborn editorial office of the paper Arthur had personally financed—entrusting its future to the rising literary titan, Charles Dickens.
The moment Arthur stepped into the cramped office, the atmosphere shifted. Typesetters halted mid-strike, proofreaders froze with red pencils in hand, and junior editors stood at attention. Seeing the Prince Consort in their humble workplace was nothing short of astonishing. Many bowed hurriedly, almost tripping over loose stacks of printed sheets.
At the far end of the room, Dickens sat behind a cluttered desk, pipe in hand, spectacles dangling near the tip of his nose. He scribbled with such fervour on a pile of manuscripts that he failed entirely to notice the commotion.
"Ahem… ahem," Arthur coughed deliberately.
Dickens jerked awake as if from a vivid dream. When his eyes met Arthur's, he sprang to his feet at once.
"Your Highness! I did not expect—certainly not today—" He dropped his pen, straightened his waistcoat, and hurried forward.
"I came to see whether my 'trumpet' is sounding loudly enough," Arthur replied with a smile, giving Dickens a friendly pat on the shoulder.
He motioned for the staff to resume their work, then led Dickens into the small private office reserved for the editor-in-chief.
Over the past months, thanks to Dickens' deft management—and Arthur's steady supply of exclusive information and serialised stories—the Daily Mirror had grown from an insignificant tabloid into one of the most influential voices among London's middle- and working-class readers.
Unlike The Times, solemn and distant, the Mirror spoke the language of ordinary people. It published Dickens' serials—follow-ups to Oliver Twist, extracts from The Old Curiosity Shop—stories soaked in social critique that left readers anxious for the fate of every orphan and debtor on the page.
The paper also dared to expose what others ignored: factory explosions caused by decaying boilers; tenants evicted into the freezing night; families collapsing under the weight of misfortune. These were not abstract debates—the articles were blood and bone, inked with the tragedies of real people.
It was no exaggeration to say the Mirror had become the clearest voice of London's lower classes.
"Your Highness," Dickens said eagerly, handing over several freshly printed issues, "we published the investigation on child mistreatment in the New Poor Law workhouses. Our correspondents verified everything. The response was immediate—London is ablaze with discussion! Several MPs are preparing to question the government in the Commons."
"Well done, Charles," Arthur said, pleased. "But this is only the beginning."
Dickens, ever idealistic, flushed with pride.
"I came today for two reasons," Arthur continued. "First, to bid you farewell. You already know I shall depart with the fleet soon."
"Yes, Your Highness." Worry flickered across Dickens' face, though admiration quickly replaced it. "Your decision inspires both anxiety and respect. On behalf of the Daily Mirror and our readers, I wish you triumph and a safe return."
Arthur inclined his head in thanks.
"And second," he said, unlocking his briefcase, "to leave you a 'script'—a rather important one."
He placed a thick, encrypted dossier on Dickens' desk.
"A script?" Dickens murmured.
"Not for the theatre," Arthur replied. "A framework for information strategy—a plan for a quiet war of words."
Dickens straightened, attentive.
"Charles," Arthur began, "while I am away, the Daily Mirror must accomplish two missions."
He raised one finger.
"First: concerning the war, I need the public to see me as a commander who is both victorious and humane. Send your finest war correspondents with the troops. They need not describe gore or slaughter. Instead, let them write of how the canned provisions I've introduced keep morale high; how quinine tablets save soldiers from fever; how our 'Queen of Vengeance' gunship terrifies the enemy."
He leaned closer.
"I want the British people to understand that our victory stems from progress—from science—and from a willingness to improve the welfare of our own men."
Dickens hesitated for a heartbeat, sensing the faint taste of self-mythologising, but he understood its political necessity and nodded.
Arthur then raised a second finger.
"The next objective is far more crucial."
His voice hardened with purpose.
"While you build my image, your newspaper must become the sharpest scalpel in the kingdom—cutting away the rot of the old aristocracy."
He opened the dossier and pointed to the first name.
"The Earl of Derby," he said. "A man who preaches 'Imperial Glory' yet allows children to crawl through the narrowest shafts of his coal mines. More than a hundred young miners die each year. I want their names in print. Their stories. Their families' grief."
Another page turned.
"And here—the Marquess of Bath. His estates cover half the country, yet he conspires with corrupt magistrates to seize the land of small farmers ruined by storms or blight. Set their pleas in the paper exactly as you hear them—unaltered, unpolished."
He went on, listing each case with meticulous precision—acts of exploitation long hidden behind titles and coats of arms.
By the time Arthur finished, Dickens looked stunned.
"Do you understand, Charles?" Arthur asked quietly, each word slow and deliberate.
"I want you to carve, in the mind of the public, two contrasting portraits."
He placed a hand on his chest.
"I stand for progress, science, compassion, and the future."
His hand lowered to the open dossier.
"They stand for stagnation, greed, oppression, and the fading past."
He drew a long breath.
"On the battlefield, I aim for victory. At home, through your pen, I aim to win the war of ideas before I even return."
He leaned back, eyes alight with calm determination.
"And when I come home crowned with military honour, public opinion itself will allow me—no, compel me—to reshape this kingdom's political order."
Dickens felt his blood surge. For the first time, he grasped the true scope of Arthur Lionheart's vision. The Prince did not merely seek success at sea or triumph over foreign adversaries—he sought to transform the British Empire from within.
"I understand, Your Highness," Dickens said, voice steady, eyes gleaming. "I shall not fail you."
Arthur smiled, satisfied.
With Charles Dickens—Britain's sharpest pen—and with the steel of the weapons Arthur would command abroad, the empire's old pillars were, at last, beginning to tremble.
When he returned, nothing—not old families, not ancient privilege, not a single entrenched tradition—would be able to halt his march forward.