He quickly insisted Jasmin try it herself, scooping another dollop onto her gloved hands, adding water. Her delighted gasp as she worked up the same rich lather, her exclamation of surprise at how easily it rinsed, leaving her thick leather gloves feeling somehow cleaner and more supple, echoed his own assessment. This was good. This was very good.
"Now," Lloyd said, his mind already leaping ahead, the successful test firing up his strategic processors. He gestured emphatically towards the pot of cooling, creamy goo. "We have the product! The golden goose… well, the beige tallow goose, for now. But presentation, Jasmin! Presentation is everything! We can't conquer the luxury market selling this magnificent concoction," he waved a hand dismissively, "by the ladleful out of a bucket like cheap stew! Nobles won't pay a premium for something scooped out of communal pot!"
He looked around the dusty smokehouse, his gaze snagging on the discarded earthenware jars, the rough wooden crates. "We need containers, Jasmin. Proper containers. Something that screams 'expensive', 'refined', 'you need this even if you don't know why yet'."
Jasmin, still marveling at her surprisingly clean and smooth-feeling (even through the glove) hand, looked thoughtful, trying to follow his rapid shift in focus. "Containers, my lord? Like… like the small earthenware jars the apothecary uses for salves? They seal tightly. Or perhaps… small wooden boxes? Carved ones? We could line them with waxed cloth?" Her suggestions were practical, based on the world she knew.
Lloyd shook his head immediately, pacing a small circle on the dusty floor, ideas firing rapidly. "Jars? Boxes? Too static, Jasmin! Think! You have to unscrew a lid, dip your fingers in, scoop it out. Messy! Unsanitary! Inelegant! Think of Lady Agatha trying to scoop this goo with her perfectly manicured nails! Disaster!" He shuddered dramatically. Need something clean, easy, idiot-proof. His mind flashed back again, an image crystal clear from eighty years on Earth. Supermarket aisles. Bathroom counters. Plastic bottles. With pumps.
"No," Lloyd murmured, stopping his pacing, a new kind of focused intensity entering his expression, the engineer taking over. "Not just a container. A dispenser. Something active. Something that delivers the product to the user, precisely, cleanly."
He walked over to the sturdy, discarded oak beam leaning against the smokehouse wall, running a hand over its rough, solid surface. The wood felt warm, alive beneath his touch. "Wood for the body," he declared, visualizing the design. "Strong, natural, beautiful when worked. It speaks of quality, of tradition, even as we introduce innovation."
He then held up his hand, fingers splayed slightly. The air around his palm shimmered almost imperceptibly, the faint hum of Void energy becoming almost audible in the quiet space. With focused will, drawing on the Ferrum power – the Steel and Fire, the essence of controlled creation and destruction – he began to shape the energy, not into aggressive wires this time, but into solid, gleaming metal, pulled seemingly from the very fabric of the Void itself.
Jasmin watched, utterly enchanted, forgetting the soap, forgetting her aching arms, forgetting everything but the quiet miracle unfolding before her eyes. She had seen glimpses of Ferrum power . But this was different. This wasn't attack or defense; this was artistry. This was creation on a level she couldn't comprehend.
Slowly, meticulously, as if sculpting light itself, Lloyd formed the intricate components of the pump mechanism from pure, shining steel. The metal flowed under his mental command, solidifying into shapes of impossible precision. A narrow cylinder emerged first, its inner surface perfectly smooth, flawless. Then, a tightly fitting piston, designed to slide within the cylinder with zero friction. Next came the delicate, complex heart of the device: the one-way valve mechanisms. Tiny flaps of steel, engineered with microscopic tolerances, appeared at the base of the cylinder, designed to allow the thick soap mixture to be drawn upwards as the piston rose, but sealing shut instantly to prevent backflow. Another, similar valve formed near the top, connected to a gracefully curved nozzle, poised to open only under the pressure of the downward stroke, forcing a measured dose of the soap outwards.
Need a return mechanism, Lloyd's internal engineer prompted. He focused again, weaving threads of steel into a delicate, perfectly coiled spring, calculating the tension needed to reliably return the pump head to its starting position after each use.