"See that you do," Roy dismissed him curtly, already reaching for a stack of official documents, the soap demonstration apparently concluded in his mind, filed away pending further data.
Lloyd turned, offering a brief, respectful nod to his mother. Milody gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile in return, her eyes still holding that spark of surprised interest and perhaps a touch of maternal pride carefully hidden beneath layers of noble composure. He glanced towards Rosa, still standing silently by the bookshelves. She met his gaze for a fraction of a second, her expression as unreadable as ever, before looking away towards the window again. But he fancied he saw a flicker, a microscopic shift in the usual icy calm. Calculation? Reassessment? Or just irritation at the lingering smell? Impossible to tell. But she had witnessed it all. Another contradictory data point for her internal analysis.
He gave Jasmin a final, encouraging nod, silently conveying his thanks for her crucial role and promising future instructions regarding the curing soap and further liquid experiments. Then, leaving the lingering scent of rosemary struggling valiantly against the faint memory of cow dung, Lloyd Ferrum exited the study. He headed towards Master Elmsworth's lecture hall, not with dread, but with a newfound spring in his step. The Arch Duke's assessment was just another hurdle, another challenge to overcome. He would provide the data. He would secure the funding. He had to. The soap empire, and the System Coins it would generate, demanded nothing less. The path ahead was clear, even if paved with academic boredom and potential chemical hazards.
----
The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing Arch Duke Roy Ferrum within the sudden, profound silence of his study. The lingering scent of rosemary battled valiantly against the ghost of cow dung, a bizarre olfactory testament to the morning's chaotic demonstration. His wife, Milody, had departed with a thoughtful, almost proprietary gleam in her eye, undoubtedly already strategizing potential marketing angles for "Ferrum Family Finest Cleansing Elixir" or some equally grand title. Rosa Siddik had vanished like smoke, her presence dissolving back into the estate's background hum, leaving behind only the faintest impression of cool, analytical assessment. Lloyd himself was presumably halfway to Master Elmsworth's lecture hall, projecting newfound diligence.
Roy remained seated behind his immense desk, the facade of the stern ruler momentarily shelved. His gaze was fixed, not on the stacks of official documents demanding his attention, nor on the intricate carvings of the ceiling, but on the object resting squarely before him: the oak and steel pumping bottle.
It sat there, solid, elegant, undeniably clever. A tangible piece of innovation that had emerged from the most unexpected source imaginable – his own son. The son he had worried over, despaired of, perhaps even subconsciously written off as a pleasant but ultimately inadequate placeholder in the Ferrum lineage. Soap, Roy thought, the word still feeling absurd in the context of ducal matters. He risked humiliation, my wrath, his mother's considerable displeasure… over soap.
Slowly, deliberately, Roy Ferrum rose from his chair. He moved around the desk, his steps measured, thoughtful. He stopped before the side table where the bottle rested. He looked at it again, truly seeing it this time, free from the need to project authority or manage the reactions of others. The smooth, warm grain of the polished oak… flawless finish. No tool marks visible. How? Shaped by hand? Impossible to achieve this uniformity. Shaped by… Void power? Possible, Ferrum power interacts with metal, perhaps wood manipulation is a lesser-known aspect? Or was it simply outsourced craftsmanship of the highest order? But who would possess such skill and maintain secrecy? The steel… cool, precise, gleaming with an inner light. Not the dull grey of common iron, but the hard lustre of true steel. Again, shaped with impossible precision.
The mechanism, his mind honed in, the engineer within him stirring from a long slumber beneath layers of political calculation. A piston pump. Valves… one-way check valves, presumably. A spring return. He traced the nozzle's curve with a fingertip. How are the tolerances achieved? For this to work smoothly with a viscous liquid like that… paste… the fit between piston and cylinder must be exact. Any binding, any leakage, and it fails. He ran a finger over the join between the wood and steel neck. Seamless. Threaded? How were threads of this fineness cut into both materials so perfectly?