"Observe, Father, Mother," Lloyd announced, his voice carrying clearly. "No need to touch the container itself when one's hands are soiled. No messy scooping from a communal pot, risking further contamination." Hygiene 101, people. Seems obvious, but apparently isn't. "A precise, clean delivery of the cleansing agent. Every single time." He began rubbing his hands together vigorously, working the rosemary-scented cream into the thick layer of dung with practiced motions.
Roy Ferrum watched, his expression unreadable granite, but Lloyd saw it – the minute shift in his father's gaze, lingering now on the bottle. The pump mechanism. The elegant fusion of wood and steel. The sheer intelligence of the design. It was novel, efficient, undeniably clever. A flicker of something – grudging respect? Engineering appreciation? – warred visibly with the ingrained anger over the dung incident. He sees it, Lloyd thought with satisfaction. He sees the innovation beyond the shock value.
Milody, meanwhile, was undergoing her own rapid transition. The initial wave of horrified offense at the dung was being challenged by the undeniable elegance of the dispenser and the surprisingly pleasant rosemary fragrance cutting through the stench. Her eyes, wide with disgust moments ago, now narrowed slightly, curiosity battling revulsion. "That… device, Lloyd," she managed, her voice tight but intrigued. "What is it?"
"Form and function, Mother," Lloyd replied smoothly, continuing to lather his hands. "A necessary evolution."
"Now, Jasmin," Lloyd commanded, interrupting any further questions about the bottle for the moment, focusing back on the primary demonstration. "The water."
Jasmin quickly, almost relieved to have a clear task, set the precious bottle down carefully on a nearby side table (on the protective cloth Lloyd had foresightedly tucked into his tunic earlier) and picked up the dipper from the water bucket. She poured a stream of cool water over Lloyd's hands as he continued rubbing them together briskly.
The effect, even knowing it was coming, was still dramatic. The rich, creamy lather exploded, white and thick against the dark muck, instantly emulsifying the dung. It wasn't just cleaning; it felt like the soap was actively attacking the filth. The brown sludge dissolved, lifted away by the potent combination of the soap's surfactant action and the flowing water. Within moments, the dung was completely gone, swirling away into the bucket Jasmin now held strategically below his hands to catch the runoff. The pungent barnyard smell was fading rapidly, almost entirely replaced by the fresh, clean scent of rosemary that now seemed to permeate the air around them.
Lloyd rinsed his hands thoroughly one last time under the stream of water, shaking off the excess droplets. He held them up, turning them slowly in the sunlight slanting through the windows. Immaculately clean. Not a speck of dung remained. Not even under his fingernails. The skin looked smooth, healthy, utterly untouched by the earlier contamination.
"Clean," Lloyd stated simply, the word resonating in the suddenly quiet study. "Completely clean." He flexed his fingers. "Achieved quickly, with minimal water compared to scrubbing with harsh agents." Efficiency, Father, efficiency. "Without abrasion. And," he added, gesturing again towards the dispenser bottle resting elegantly on the side table, "delivered hygienically and elegantly."
Milody Austin stared, speechless for a moment. Her logical mind warred with the visual evidence. Dung, foul and pervasive one minute, vanished the next, replaced by clean skin and a pleasant scent? It defied her experience. "How…?" she breathed again, unconsciously moving closer, drawn by a force stronger than her lingering disgust. "That… that dreadful mess… it simply vanished! And your hands…" Her ingrained aristocratic reserve cracked completely. "Let me see them!"
Forgetting the layers of protocol that usually governed their interactions, she reached out impulsively and took Lloyd's hand, turning it over, examining the skin with the intensity of a jeweler inspecting a gemstone. "They aren't red! They aren't chapped or rough!" she exclaimed, genuine astonishment making her voice higher pitched than usual. "My own hands feel drier after just using the standard household soap! Yours feel… smooth! Almost soft!" She brought his hand closer to her face, inhaling cautiously. "And the smell… definitely rosemary! Clean. Not perfumed, but… fresh." She looked up at him, her eyes wide with bewildered inquiry, the formidable Duchess momentarily replaced by a woman confronting a domestic miracle. "Lloyd, what is this miracle liquid?"
"It's soap, Mother," Lloyd replied calmly, gently retrieving his hand, meeting her astonished gaze with a steady one of his own. "As I explained to Father a few days ago. But fundamentally different. Crafted from finer ingredients," (he conveniently omitted the tallow base for now), "balanced, scented naturally." He paused, letting the impact land. "Liquid soap. Or rather," he corrected himself slightly, aiming for accuracy, "a highly effective soft soap, the precursor to a true liquid form I intend to perfect."