"Lloyd, dear," Milody offered a small, practiced smile, though her eyes held a keen, intelligent curiosity. "Your father mentioned you had something… innovative to show us? We are quite intrigued." Her tone was light, but Lloyd knew her scrutiny would be rigorous; she missed little and suffered fools poorly.
"Thank you, Mother. I believe you will be," Lloyd replied confidently. He turned slightly towards the door. "With your permission, Father, I need my assistant."
Roy gave a curt nod. Lloyd opened the door and spoke quietly to the waiting attendant. "Send for Jasmin. Tell her to bring… the demonstration materials. As discussed." He deliberately kept the instruction vague, building anticipation, however slight.
A few minutes of tense silence filled the study, broken only by the ticking clock and the faint clink of Milody's teacup returning to its saucer. Rosa stood silently near the bookshelves, a figure of emerald stillness, observing the room, the occupants, the anticipation, with that unnerving detached focus. Roy tapped his quill rhythmically, his gaze fixed on the door. Milody waited with polite, yet clearly impatient, anticipation. Lloyd stood calmly, projecting confidence he hoped wasn't entirely feigned, running through the demonstration steps mentally.
Then, a soft knock. Jasmin entered, looking pale and profoundly nervous, almost overwhelmed by the combined presence of the Arch Duke, the Duchess, and Lady Rosa, all focused intently on her. She carried a rough, burlap-wrapped bundle that seemed incongruously heavy for her small frame. The moment she stepped fully into the room, however, another presence announced itself, far more powerfully: the smell.
It wasn't the clean scent of rosemary from yesterday. It was the rich, earthy, deeply pungent aroma of the barnyard. Raw, undeniable, utterly out of place in the refined atmosphere of the Arch Duke's study. Cow dung.
Milody's delicately sculpted nose wrinkled instantly. Her eyes widened, disbelief warring with disgust. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp with offense, setting her teacup down with a distinct clatter. "Child! What is that dreadful odor? What have you brought into this room?"
Jasmin flinched, looking desperately towards Lloyd, clutching the bundle tighter as if it might offer protection.
Roy Ferrum's stern expression deepened into a frown, not of mere disgust, but of profound, almost offended confusion. His gaze shot towards Lloyd, demanding an immediate explanation for this bizarre, olfactory assault on his chambers. Rosa remained impassive, though her nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as she mentally filed 'introduction of potent bovine excrement odor' under 'highly anomalous, potentially irrational presentation tactic'. She observed Lloyd closely, trying to discern the logic, however obscure, behind this move.
Lloyd ignored their reactions, stepping forward smoothly, taking the burlap bundle from a trembling Jasmin. "Thank you, Jasmin. Place it here." He indicated the floor directly in front of his father's desk, a space usually reserved for supplicants bearing petitions or officials presenting reports. He unwrapped the bundle with deliberate care, revealing a hefty pile of fresh, steaming cow dung. The smell intensified, thick and cloying, aggressively real.
Milody gasped, genuinely horrified now, pushing her chair back slightly. "Lloyd! Have you taken leave of your senses?! Remove that… that filth immediately! This is outrageous!"
"Patience, Mother," Lloyd said calmly, his voice steady despite the rising tension. He then performed the action that shocked everyone into momentary silence: he deliberately, carefully, scooped up a generous handful of the dung. He rubbed it between his palms, coating his hands thoroughly in the muck. The physical act, the deliberate self-contamination in front of his appalled parents and his inscrutable wife, was profoundly jarring, a violation of every noble sensibility, every rule of decorum.
"Lloyd!" Milody shrieked, half rising from her chair again, her face pale with outrage and utter disbelief. "What in the name of the ancestors are you doing?! This is beyond improper! It's… it's madness! Sheer, utter madness!"
Roy's hand shot out, gripping his wife's arm gently but firmly, preventing her from intervening further, though his own face was now a thunderous mask. His eyes remained locked on Lloyd, narrowed, no longer just confused, but intensely, furiously demanding. There had better be a damn good reason for this deliberate provocation, his expression screamed silently across the desk. A reason beyond mere shock value.
Lloyd ignored his mother's outburst, ignored his father's thunderous silence, ignored Rosa's unnervingly calm, analytical observation. He looked down at his dung-covered hands, acknowledging the visceral reality of the mess. Then he looked up, meeting his father's gaze directly, his own expression shifting, becoming serious, focused, the theatrical element dropping away.
"Now, Father," he began, his voice ringing with theatrical clarity, "the problem." He held up his soiled hands. "Filth. Grime. Contamination. A universal constant. How does one achieve true cleanliness? Effectively? Efficiently? Without damaging the very hands that perform the work?"