"Liquid… soap?" Milody repeated the alien concept, her gaze shifting immediately towards the elegant bottle Jasmin had set down. The dispenser suddenly made sense. Not just a fancy container, but a necessary delivery system for a non-solid product. Her mind, sharp and attuned to luxury and refinement, instantly grasped the implications. Convenience. Elegance. Cleanliness without harshness. Her eyes lit up with a spark Lloyd hadn't seen directed at him before – genuine, unadulterated commercial interest. "Lloyd," she breathed, "do you realize…?"
Intrigued now beyond mere curiosity, her innate desire for quality and refinement overriding her earlier disgust completely, she turned decisively to Jasmin. "Child," she commanded, her voice regaining some of its usual authority but laced with unconcealed eagerness, "give me some of that… soap." She gestured towards the bottle, then hesitated, mirroring Jasmin's earlier uncertainty about the pump. "How does this… ingenious device operate?"
Jasmin, startled by the direct address but buoyed by the Duchess's clear interest and Lloyd's triumphant demonstration, quickly stepped forward. "Allow me, Your Grace." Showing a confidence born of recent experience, she picked up the bottle and, mimicking Lloyd's earlier instruction with newfound deftness, carefully pumped a small amount of the creamy soap onto the Duchess's outstretched, perfectly manicured palm.
Milody examined the pale beige substance curiously, rubbing it between her fingers, noting the smooth texture. She sniffed it appreciatively again – the rosemary scent was clean, undoubtedly appealing to noble sensibilities tired of heavy, cloying perfumes. Then, despite her hands being perfectly clean already, driven by the need to experience it firsthand, she mirrored Lloyd's actions, rubbing her hands together, adding a splash of water Jasmin offered from the dipper. The same rich, luxurious lather appeared, eliciting a soft exclamation of surprise from the Duchess. The scent intensified pleasurably. She rinsed under the stream Jasmin provided, dried her hands meticulously on a fine linen handkerchief produced silently from her sleeve, and then stared at her own hands, marveling, flexing her fingers.
"Remarkable," she murmured again, her voice filled with genuine appreciation. "Truly remarkable. My hands feel… refreshed. Velvety, almost. Cleaner than usual, somehow. And the scent is delightful." She looked directly at Lloyd again, her expression transformed. The disgust was gone, the skepticism vanished, replaced by sharp intelligence assessing potential. "Lloyd," her voice was different now, imbued with the authority of someone recognizing significant value, "this… this is not merely innovative. This is… potentially revolutionary. For personal comfort, for hygiene… for status." The last word hung in the air, vibrating with implication. Owning such a product, such a dispenser, would instantly become a mark of distinction.
Lloyd allowed himself another small, satisfied smile, internally checking off 'Target Audience Approval: Mother - Secured'. He had won over the household's ultimate arbiter of luxury and refinement. He turned his gaze back to the final, most crucial judge.
Arch Duke Roy Ferrum had remained silent throughout the entire performance. His face was an unreadable mask, his eyes missing nothing – the dung, the elegant bottle, the mechanics of the pump, the soap's effectiveness, his wife's dramatic shift from horror to enthusiastic approval, Rosa's continued silent assessment from the sidelines. He processed it all with intense, silent calculation, the cogs of his powerful mind turning, weighing variables, assessing potential far beyond mere cleanliness. He hadn't commented on the dung incident after his initial silent fury, nor offered any verbal reaction to the soap's success. His focus, Lloyd had correctly surmised, remained fixed on the innovation – both the chemical formulation (implied) and the mechanical delivery system (explicit).
Finally, Roy spoke, his voice utterly flat, devoid of praise or censure, cutting through the Duchess's burgeoning enthusiasm. "The bottle," he stated, gesturing towards the oak and steel object resting on the desk where Lloyd had placed it earlier. "Give it to me."