He turned to the still-trembling Jasmin, who looked as if she might faint from the combined stress of the dung, the Duchess's fury, and the Arch Duke's silent disapproval. "Jasmin," he commanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the tension, pulling her back to her role. "Bring the bottle."
Jasmin jumped, startled back into action. She fumbled for a moment with a smaller, carefully wrapped package she'd held hidden behind her back – the second dispenser, identical to the one Lloyd had gifted Rosa earlier – then presented it to Lloyd with shaking hands.
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The tension in the Arch Duke's study was thick enough to choke on, a palpable pressure distinct from mere political gravity. The pungent aroma of fresh cow dung assaulted the senses, a stark, earthy reality crashing against the polished mahogany, expensive tapestries, and the inherent dignity of the room. It was an olfactory declaration of war against propriety. Milody Austin looked moments away from either summoning the smelling salts or the guard captain, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. Roy Ferrum's face was a thundercloud of controlled fury and profound confusion, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of his desk. Rosa, an island of emerald calm near the bookshelves, continued her silent, unnerving observation, her stillness a counterpoint to the rising chaos – perhaps classifying 'dung-handling as performance art' as a new, highly perplexing variable in the ongoing Lloyd Ferrum equation. Only Jasmin, pale and trembling but clutching the beautifully wrapped bottle like a lifeline, seemed focused, awaiting her cue amidst the aristocratic meltdown.
"Now, Father," Lloyd repeated, his voice cutting through the strained silence with startling clarity, holding up his thoroughly dung-covered hands. The contrast between his calm tone and his defiled state was jarring. "The problem. Filth. Grime. Contamination." The universal equalizer, his internal monologue added wryly. Even Arch Dukes get dirty. "How does one achieve true cleanliness in a world often defined by… well, this?" He gestured with his soiled hands, a deliberate, almost theatrical display.
He locked eyes with his father, the challenge clear. You wanted a demonstration? You wanted proof of concept? Fine. Let's start with the fundamental problem this solves.
He then turned his gaze to Jasmin, whose wide eyes darted between the dung, the furious Duchess, the stony Arch Duke, and the bottle she held. "Jasmin," he commanded, his voice sharp, clear, pulling her focus. "The bottle. And water."
Jasmin jumped, startled but obedient. She quickly held up the beautifully crafted oak and steel pumping bottle Lloyd had created, its polished surfaces gleaming softly, a beacon of unexpected elegance amidst the squalor. In her other hand, she held the bucket of clean water they had brought from the smokehouse. She approached Lloyd hesitantly, moving as if navigating a minefield, clearly terrified of drawing the ire of the Duke and Duchess further.
"Hold the bottle steady," Lloyd instructed calmly, his voice a reassuring anchor in her panic. He nodded towards his soiled hands. "Position the nozzle over my hands. Aim carefully." He saw her hand tremble as she raised the exquisite object. "Now," he demonstrated by nudging the gleaming steel pump head with his relatively cleaner forearm, a deliberate action showing the intended ease of use even when contaminated, "press down firmly on this top part. The pump."
Jasmin, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination, positioned the elegant nozzle as directed. She took a shaky breath, her fingers finding the unfamiliar steel mechanism. It looked alien, like something from a dream or a different world. Hesitantly, she pressed down.
Click-hiss.
The sound was clean, precise, cutting through the thick tension. With a smooth, satisfying mechanical action, the pump depressed, and a measured stream of thick, creamy, pale beige liquid dispensed directly onto Lloyd's soiled hands. The clean, invigorating scent of rosemary instantly blossomed in the air, a startling, welcome counter-offensive against the pervasive earthy stench of the dung. It was like smelling a spring garden after wading through a stable.
Jasmin gasped softly, surprised by the ease of operation and the fragrant liquid emerging from the beautiful object. It worked. This strange device he'd made… it actually did something.
"Again," Lloyd instructed, his voice even. Jasmin pressed the pump again, delivering another precise dose of the soft soap.
While Jasmin held the dispenser, Lloyd turned his attention back to his father, though his words were implicitly for everyone in the room. His internal strategist was analyzing their reactions in real-time. Mother: peak disgust, transitioning to baffled curiosity by the bottle. Father: Fury masked by control, focus shifting to the mechanism's novelty. Rosa: Processing... always processing. Good. Keep them off balance.