The morning sun hit Oakhaven, but it brought no warmth to Taylor. She had spent the night staring at the barricaded door, waiting for the handle to turn. It hadn't.
"A" was playing the long game. And to survive a long game, one needed resources.
Taylor sat at her desk, ignoring the stale bread Luna had brought for breakfast. Instead, she was drawing. Her charcoal stick moved with feverish intensity, sketching out a chemical flow chart.
**[Current Objective: Secure Funding]**
**[County Status: Bankrupt]**
Her father, the Count, was broke. If the estate collapsed, Taylor would be sold off to some minor baron, or worse, thrown out onto the streets where "A" could pick her off easily. She needed gold. And in a primitive world, science was the ultimate currency.
"Luna," Taylor said, not looking up.
"Yes, My Lady?" Luna was hovering by the wardrobe, obsessively folding and unfolding Taylor's shawls.
"I need access to the kitchens. And I need wood ash. A lot of it. Specifically from hardwood trees—oak or beech. No pine."
Luna blinked. "Ash? For... repentance?"
"For chemistry," Taylor said, standing up. "We're going to cook."
***
The castle kitchen was a chaotic, humid dungeon filled with the smell of roasting boar and unwashed bodies. Chef Gaston, a man whose width rivaled his height, stood by a massive cauldron, screaming at a scullery maid.
"You call this broth? This is dishwater!" Gaston roared, raising a ladle like a weapon.
"Chef Gaston," Taylor's voice cut through the noise.
The kitchen went silent. Gaston turned. He looked at the frail noble girl in the doorway with a mixture of annoyance and confusion.
"Lady Taylor," Gaston grunted, wiping his greasy hands on his apron. "This is no place for silk dresses. We are busy preparing the Count's lunch."
"I'm not here to eat," Taylor said, stepping into the room. She scanned the shelves. Jars of rendered fat (tallow). Sacks of sea salt. And in the hearth, a massive pile of white ash.
"I am commandeering this station," Taylor announced, pointing to a side stove.
"You cannot—"
"Gaston," Taylor interrupted, her voice sharp. "My father is complaining about the treasury. If I don't create a new export product by the end of the week, he will likely cut the kitchen budget. Do you want to cook with sawdust next month?"
Gaston paled. The threat to his budget was the only thing that scared him more than the Count. "What... what do you need?"
"That fat," Taylor pointed to the tallow. "And the ash from the hearth. Luna, bring the bucket."
Taylor channeled the spirit of *Dr. Stone*. She wasn't just mixing things; she was manipulating the fundamental building blocks of matter.
**[Step 1: Leaching the Lye]**
Taylor took the hardwood ash and placed it in a barrel with holes drilled in the bottom, lined with straw and fabric. She poured water over it.
"Watch," Taylor instructed the confused kitchen staff. "The water pulls the potassium carbonate—the potash—from the ash. The brown liquid dripping out is lye."
She caught a drop of the liquid on a feather. It sizzled slightly.
"Caustic," she muttered. "Perfect pH."
**[Step 2: Saponification]**
"Chef, bring the tallow to a boil," Taylor commanded.
Gaston, now intrigued despite himself, poured the white animal fat into a cauldron.
"Now," Taylor said, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of creation. "We add the lye."
She poured the brown liquid into the boiling fat.
"Oil and water do not mix, My Lady," Gaston sneered, seeing a chance to correct her. "It will just separate."
"Normally, yes," Taylor said, stirring the mixture with a long wooden paddle. "But the lye attacks the triglyceride bonds in the fat. It breaks the ester link. It frees the fatty acids and creates a salt."
She looked at Gaston.
"It's called hydrolysis. We are breaking the molecular chains of the fat and forcing them to dance with the alkali."
The kitchen staff stared at her. They didn't understand the words *ester link* or *hydrolysis*, but they saw the reaction. The separation stopped. The mixture began to thicken. It turned from a greasy mess into a thick, creamy white paste.
"Salt," Taylor ordered. "To separate the glycerin."
She threw in a handful of sea salt. The mixture curdled slightly, the soap curds floating to the top, separating from the water and impurities.
"Pour it into the molds," Taylor said, gesturing to the wooden trays she had prepared.
***
Two hours later.
The mixture had cooled and hardened. Taylor flipped the tray. A solid, white block fell onto the table with a heavy *thud*.
It wasn't the soft, brown, smelly sludge the peasants used to wash clothes. This was hard, white, and thanks to a few drops of lavender oil Taylor had stolen from her room, it smelled like a garden.
"What is it?" Luna whispered, reaching out to touch it.
"Soap," Taylor said. "Real soap. A surfactant that reduces the surface tension of water, allowing it to bond with oil and dirt."
She cut a bar and handed it to Gaston. "Wash your hands."
Gaston scoffed, but he took the bar to a basin of water. He rubbed it. It lathered. Thick, white bubbles formed—something he had rarely seen. He rinsed his hands.
When he pulled them out, the grease was gone. His skin squeaked.
"By the Saints," Gaston breathed, staring at his clean palms. "It eats the grease."
"It's science," Taylor corrected. "And it's going to save this House."
**[Ding!]**
**[Item Created: Luxury Lavender Soap (Quality: A)]**
**[Blueprint Unlocked: Industrial Soap Press]**
Taylor looked at the white bars. This was her first step. Hygiene meant health. Health meant a stronger workforce. A stronger workforce meant better construction.
But as she was cutting the bars, she noticed something on the table.
Scratched into the wood of the kitchen table, barely visible under the flour dust, was a symbol.
It was a small, crude drawing of a **bridge**.
Taylor froze, the knife hovering over the soap.
It wasn't the District 9 bridge. It was a simple arch. But underneath it, carved in tiny, jagged letters, was a date.
*10-14-2025*
The day Arthur died.
Taylor's blood ran cold. She looked around the kitchen. Gaston was marveling at the soap. Luna was popping bubbles. The scullery maids were gossiping.
Someone had been here. Someone had carved that date recently.
"A" wasn't just watching from the shadows. "A" walked these halls. "A" could be anyone.
"Luna," Taylor said, her voice steady despite the panic rising in her chest.
"Yes, My Lady?"
"Pack the soap. We're going to see the Count."
Taylor grabbed the knife. She wasn't just taking the soap. She was taking the weapon.
*Science is power,* she thought, gripping the handle. *But I need to know who else in this castle knows the periodic table.*