They continued stirring. The work was monotonous, tiring. The heat from the fire, combined with the exothermic reaction subtly warming the mixture itself, made the small smokehouse feel close and humid. Sweat trickled down their temples. Their arms grew heavy, muscles protesting the relentless, repetitive motion. Lloyd occasionally checked the fire, adding a small log now and then to maintain the steady, low heat.
He used the time to explain more, solidifying his own understanding as he taught Jasmin. He talked about how different fats and oils created different types of soap – tallow making a hard, durable bar, while olive oil yielded a softer, more moisturizing one. He spoke of the glycerin naturally produced, the element that made handmade soap gentler than the harsh commercial blocks they knew. Jasmin listened intently, asking insightful questions, her initial fear replaced entirely by absorbed concentration.
Time lost meaning. They measured progress not by the clock, but by the subtle thickening of the mixture in the cauldron. It slowly transitioned from thin porridge to thick custard, clinging more readily to the wooden paddles.
"Almost there," Lloyd murmured, his voice hoarse with fatigue. He dipped his paddle into the mixture, lifted it, and let a stream drizzle back into the pot. Instead of immediately sinking back in, the drizzled trail remained visible on the surface for a distinct second or two before slowly disappearing. "Trace! Jasmin, look! Trace!"
Jasmin leaned over, peering excitedly. "It leaves a path! Like you said it might!"
"Exactly!" Lloyd felt a surge of triumphant satisfaction, fatigue momentarily forgotten. "This is the sign. Saponification is well underway. The mixture has reached the point where the reaction will continue on its own, even after we remove it from the heat. It's ready."
He quickly decided against adding any fragrance for this first batch. Simplicity was key. Proving the core concept was paramount. Refinements could come later.
"Right," he commanded, grabbing the thick leather aprons to use as makeshift pot holders. "Carefully now. We need to lift the cauldron off the heat."
Together, muscles straining, they carefully maneuvered the heavy iron pot away from the fire, setting it down on the cool stone floor nearby. The mixture within was thick, opaque, pale beige, smelling faintly of cooked fat and alkali – the nascent scent of basic, unscented soap.
Lloyd had prepared simple molds earlier – shallow wooden frames he'd hastily knocked together, lined with pieces of clean sacking Jasmin had procured. "Now, we pour," he instructed. "Carefully. It's still hot, still caustic."
Using a smaller earthenware bowl as a ladle, they carefully transferred the thick, trace-stage soap mixture into the waiting molds, smoothing the tops as best they could with the paddles. They filled three frames, the thick liquid settling slowly.
"There," Lloyd breathed, stepping back, surveying their handiwork. Three rectangles of cooling, solidifying potential profit. It wasn't pretty yet. It wasn't luxurious. But it was soap. Real soap, created from scratch. "Now, the hardest part, Jasmin."
She looked at him expectantly. "My lord?"
"Now," he said, gesturing towards the cooling molds, "we wait." He explained the curing process – how the soap needed to sit undisturbed in a cool, dry place for several weeks, allowing the chemical reaction to fully complete, excess water to evaporate, making the bars harder, milder, and safer to use. "This isn't instant magic. It requires patience."
He saw a flicker of disappointment in her eyes – the desire for immediate results – but it was quickly replaced by understanding. She nodded solemnly. "Patience, my lord. I understand."
They carefully covered the molds loosely with more sacking to keep dust off while allowing air circulation, then tidied their makeshift workspace, banking the fire, rinsing the tools, ensuring no trace of their activity remained obvious.
As they finally stepped out of the dim, stuffy smokehouse into the cool twilight air, Jasmin turned to Lloyd, her face smudged with soot and sweat, her eyes shining with an emotion he hadn't seen before – not fear, not confusion, but profound, unadulterated awe.
"My lord," she whispered, shaking her head slightly as if still unable to fully comprehend what they had achieved. "You took ash. And fat. And fire. And… and you made this." She gestured back towards the smokehouse containing the curing soap. "It truly is… alchemy. You have knowledge, power… unlike anything I have ever known."
Lloyd simply smiled, fatigue forgotten in the warm glow of successful creation. Knowledge was indeed power. And this knowledge, this simple, practical application of basic chemistry, felt more potent, more immediately useful, than all the complex theories Master Elmsworth could drone on about.
The soap empire had laid its first foundation stones. Now, all it needed was time, patience, and a lot more Coins.
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