The smell of lavender was a shield. Taylor held the tray of white soap bars like a knight holding a buckler, marching through the drafty corridors of Oakhaven Castle.
Luna walked a step behind her, trembling. "My Lady, the Count is in a meeting with the Treasurer. He shouted so loud earlier that a pigeon fell off the roof. Are you sure we should go in?"
"The best time to sell a solution, Luna, is when the customer is drowning in problems," Taylor said, her eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall.
She wasn't just walking into her father's study. She was walking into a boardroom. And in her past life, Arthur had survived boardrooms far more toxic than this—literally and figuratively.
Taylor reached the guards. They were the same men who had used the new septic tank earlier that morning.
"Lady Taylor," the guard on the left said, straightening up. There was a newfound respect in his eyes. "The Count is... indisposed."
"Tell him his daughter has found the money to pay the Royal Tax," Taylor said calmly.
The guards exchanged a look. Money was the magic word.
"Enter at your own risk, My Lady."
***
The study was dark, smelling of old parchment, wax, and stress. Count Roderick sat behind a massive desk cluttered with ledgers. Standing before him was a thin, weasel-faced man—**Treasurer Petyr**—who looked like he was about to faint.
"We are ruined!" the Count roared, slamming a fist onto the table. "The iron mines are dry! The wool harvest is moth-eaten! How am I supposed to pay the King?"
"Perhaps... we could sell the silverware?" Petyr squeaked.
"We sold the silverware last year, you idiot!"
"Father," Taylor's voice cut through the shouting.
The Count froze. He looked up, his face flushed with rage. When he saw Taylor, his expression shifted to pure exhaustion.
"You," he growled. "I told you to stay out of my sight unless you were marrying a Baron. Did you find a husband in the mud?"
"No," Taylor said, walking forward and placing the tray on his desk. "I found something better. I found an industry."
The Count looked at the tray. He looked at the white, rectangular blocks. They were smooth, uniform, and radiated a scent that overpowered the musty room.
"Cheese?" the Count asked, confused. "You brought me... lavender cheese?"
"It's soap, Father," Taylor said.
"Soap?" The Count scoffed. "We have soap. The peasants boil pig fat and ash. It's brown, it stinks, and it scrapes the skin off."
"That is sludge," Taylor corrected. "This is luxury."
She picked up a bar.
"Treasurer Petyr," Taylor said, turning to the weasel-faced man. "How much does a bar of imported scented soap from the Capital cost?"
Petyr blinked. "Uh... well... the Venetian Rose bars? They go for... maybe 50 silver coins a crate? It is a luxury only the High Nobles use."
"And why?" Taylor asked.
"Because... well, making it white and hard is a secret of the Alchemist Guilds," Petyr stammered.
Taylor tossed the bar to Petyr. He caught it, surprised by the weight and the texture. It was hard as stone, smooth as marble.
"I made this in the kitchen," Taylor said. "Using our own tallow and hardwood ash. The cost of production? Zero gold. Just labor."
The Count stood up slowly. "You made this? In the kitchen?"
"Science, Father," Taylor said. [attachment_0](attachment) "It's a precise chemical reaction called saponification. I removed the impurities. I added scent. This isn't just soap. It's White Gold."
She leaned over the desk.
"Winter is coming. The skin gets dry. The nobles in the capital will pay a premium for soap that moisturizes and smells like summer. I can produce five hundred bars a week with the current staff."
The Count looked at the soap. He picked up a bar and sniffed it. He rubbed his thumb over the wax-like finish.
He looked at Petyr.
"Valuation?" the Count barked.
Petyr was sniffing the soap with a look of ecstasy. "My Lord... if we stamp the Oakhaven crest on this... we could sell these for 2 silver pieces a bar. Five hundred a week... that's... that's 1,000 silver pieces! That pays the tax in a month!"
The Count dropped the soap. He looked at Taylor. For the first time in seventeen years, there was no hatred in his eyes. There was calculation.
"You want something," the Count said. "You didn't do this out of the kindness of your heart."
"I want authority," Taylor said, meeting his gaze. "I want full control over the estate's infrastructure. Sanitation, construction, and resource management. Petyr answers to me regarding the budget for materials."
"Preposterous!" Petyr gasped. "She is a child!"
"I am the child who just saved your ledger," Taylor snapped, channeling the icy demeanor of a Senior Engineer firing an incompetent contractor. "Do you know how to make the soap, Petyr? Do you know the ratio of lye to fat? Do you know the critical temperature for hydrolysis?"
Petyr shrank back. "N-No."
"Then I am in charge," Taylor said.
The Count stared at her. He saw the charcoal stains on her fingers. He saw the cold intelligence in her eyes. It unnerved him. This wasn't his daughter. This was a stranger wearing her face.
But he was a pragmatist. And he was broke.
"Done," the Count said. "But if you fail to meet the quota, I sell you to Baron Hogg. He needs a wife, and he doesn't care about soap."
[Ding!]
[Quest Complete: Secure Funding]
[Reward: Title "Interim Administrator" Acquired]
[New Feature Unlocked: Territory Management Menu]
Taylor bowed. "Pleasure doing business with you, Lord Oakhaven."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," the Count said.
Taylor stopped, her hand on the door handle.
"Your mother..." The Count's voice wavered for a second, then hardened. "She liked lavender. It was her favorite."
Taylor didn't turn around. She knew this body's history. She knew the tragedy. But she also knew that sentimentality wouldn't save her from "A".
"Then it should sell well," Taylor said simply, and walked out.
***
As the door closed, Taylor let out a shaky breath. Her knees felt weak. Facing the Count was harder than building a bridge.
"You did it!" Luna whispered, looking at Taylor as if she had just slain a dragon. "You bossed the Treasurer! You made the Count agree! My Lady, you are terrifying!"
"I'm desperate, Luna. There's a difference," Taylor muttered.
They began walking back down the hallway. But as they passed a large decorative mirror in the corridor, Taylor stopped.
She saw her reflection. The silver hair, the pale skin.
But in the reflection of the hallway behind her, she saw something else.
Standing at the far end of the corridor, half-hidden by a tapestry, was a figure. It was **Stepmother Isabella**.
The Countess wasn't looking at Taylor with the usual indifference. She was staring with a look of pure, unadulterated *suspicion*. Her hand was clutching a rosary so tight her knuckles were white.
And pinned to her dress, right above her heart, was a brooch.
A brooch shaped like a **bridge**.
Taylor turned around sharply.
The hallway was empty. The tapestry swayed slightly, as if disturbed by a draft... or a fleeing person.
Taylor's hand went to her pocket, gripping the note "A" had left.
*Structural integrity is everything.*
Isabella. Was it her? Or was the brooch just a coincidence?
"Luna," Taylor said, her voice low.
"Yes, My Lady?"
"I need you to find out everything you can about the Countess's jewelry," Taylor said, her eyes fixed on the swaying tapestry. "Specifically... where she gets her designs."
Science had solved the money problem. But chemistry couldn't detect a liar. For that, she needed something else.
She needed a spy.