My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 47

Chapter : 93

Her gaze sharpened slightly. He anticipates a reaction beyond simple assessment, she noted inwardly. Suggests the demonstration involves elements outside standard practice. She weighed this new piece of information. Observing Lloyd's interaction with the Arch Duke, particularly regarding this 'unexpected' project, presented an opportunity to gather more information about the increasingly unpredictable variable he represented. The anomaly that was Lloyd Ferrum continued to defy easy explanation.

But then, a different connection surfaced in her thoughts, triggered by his mention of the project. Her expression remained unchanged, but her next words carried a subtle, almost undetectable edge, a reference to her own quiet observations the previous day. "This 'prototype'," she stated, her voice still level but somehow more pointed, "does it perhaps relate to the… extensive time you spent yesterday engaged in unorthodox activities near the secluded pond? With," she paused, the word choice deliberate, almost too precise, yet carrying an undeniable undertone of scrutiny, "'that' maid?"

Lloyd froze mid-breath, genuinely caught off guard. He hadn't realized she'd seen them. Or perhaps he'd underestimated her observational reach within the estate. Damn it. How much did she witness? The ash? The lye leaching? The smokehouse rendezvous? His carefully constructed veil of secrecy felt suddenly, embarrassingly thin. He felt a flush creep up his neck, annoyance warring with a strange sort of impressed respect for her silent vigilance.

He recovered quickly, forcing a casual tone, though his internal monologue was scrambling. She saw? Okay, damage control. Don't deny. Deflect. Maintain mystery. "Ah," he managed, rubbing the back of his neck nonchalantly. "An astute observation, as always, Rosa." He offered a slightly sheepish grin. "Guilty as charged. My apologies if our… rustic experimentation… disturbed the tranquility of your afternoon constitutional." He paused, then confirmed directly, deciding honesty (or a version of it) was the best defense. "But yes. Today's presentation is indeed the culmination of that work." He met her gaze again, regaining his confidence. "All the more reason for you to attend, wouldn't you agree? To see the final result of such… unorthodox activities." He deliberately threw her own words back at her, subtly challenging her judgment.

Rosa considered this. Her usual preference was for detachment, avoiding unnecessary entanglement. But his open admission, confirming the link between yesterday's baffling, ash-covered labor and today's high-stakes presentation… it tipped the scales. The logical need to observe, to gather information on this inconsistent variable, outweighed her preference for distance. Understanding Lloyd Ferrum, however illogical his actions seemed, was becoming necessary for navigating her own position within this arranged marriage.

"Very well," she conceded finally, the word clipped, precise. She rose gracefully from the armchair, smoothing the emerald silk of her gown. "Observing the outcome of your… project… may provide relevant information regarding your current atypical behaviors." Her agreement was framed entirely in the language of detached observation, lacking any hint of personal curiosity or conventional support. "Lead the way."

Lloyd hid his sigh of relief, mixed with faint amusement at her clinical phrasing. Atypical behaviors. That was certainly one way to put it. "Excellent," he said briskly, turning towards the door. "After you, my lady."

The walk to the Arch Duke's study felt subtly different this time, charged with an unusual energy. Lloyd strode with focused purpose, mentally reviewing his presentation points. Rosa glided beside him, a step behind as protocol dictated but acutely present, her silence somehow more potent than conversation. Lloyd couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of… shared scrutiny? A temporary alliance formed by mutual curiosity about what was about to unfold? Whatever it was, it was new, and undeniably weird.

They arrived at the heavy oak door. Lloyd knocked firmly.

"Enter."

He pushed the door open, stepping aside slightly to allow Rosa to enter first, a small concession to formality. The scene within was familiar, yet subtly shifted. Roy Ferrum sat behind his desk, imposing as ever, his expression stern but expectant. But seated in one of the heavy chairs opposite the desk, sipping delicately from a porcelain teacup, was Milody Austin, Duchess Ferrum. Lloyd’s mother.

Mother? Here? Lloyd felt a flicker of surprise. Her presence wasn't requested, not part of his plan. Had his father summoned her? Or had she inserted herself, driven by her own sharp curiosity about the 'prototype' her son had promised? Her presence added another layer of complexity, another critical audience member known for her discerning taste and swift judgment. This just got harder.

"Father. Mother," Lloyd greeted, bowing respectfully. Rosa offered a shallow, perfect curtsy, her face serene, betraying nothing of her internal assessments.

"Lloyd," Roy acknowledged, his gaze sharp, assessing. "You requested this audience. The deadline is met."

"Indeed, Father," Lloyd confirmed, stepping forward.

Chapter : 94

"Lloyd, dear," Milody offered a small, practiced smile, though her eyes held a keen, intelligent curiosity. "Your father mentioned you had something… innovative to show us? We are quite intrigued." Her tone was light, but Lloyd knew her scrutiny would be rigorous; she missed little and suffered fools poorly.

"Thank you, Mother. I believe you will be," Lloyd replied confidently. He turned slightly towards the door. "With your permission, Father, I need my assistant."

Roy gave a curt nod. Lloyd opened the door and spoke quietly to the waiting attendant. "Send for Jasmin. Tell her to bring… the demonstration materials. As discussed." He deliberately kept the instruction vague, building anticipation, however slight.

A few minutes of tense silence filled the study, broken only by the ticking clock and the faint clink of Milody’s teacup returning to its saucer. Rosa stood silently near the bookshelves, a figure of emerald stillness, observing the room, the occupants, the anticipation, with that unnerving detached focus. Roy tapped his quill rhythmically, his gaze fixed on the door. Milody waited with polite, yet clearly impatient, anticipation. Lloyd stood calmly, projecting confidence he hoped wasn’t entirely feigned, running through the demonstration steps mentally.

Then, a soft knock. Jasmin entered, looking pale and profoundly nervous, almost overwhelmed by the combined presence of the Arch Duke, the Duchess, and Lady Rosa, all focused intently on her. She carried a rough, burlap-wrapped bundle that seemed incongruously heavy for her small frame. The moment she stepped fully into the room, however, another presence announced itself, far more powerfully: the smell.

It wasn't the clean scent of rosemary from yesterday. It was the rich, earthy, deeply pungent aroma of the barnyard. Raw, undeniable, utterly out of place in the refined atmosphere of the Arch Duke's study. Cow dung.

Milody’s delicately sculpted nose wrinkled instantly. Her eyes widened, disbelief warring with disgust. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp with offense, setting her teacup down with a distinct clatter. "Child! What is that dreadful odor? What have you brought into this room?"

Jasmin flinched, looking desperately towards Lloyd, clutching the bundle tighter as if it might offer protection.

Roy Ferrum’s stern expression deepened into a frown, not of mere disgust, but of profound, almost offended confusion. His gaze shot towards Lloyd, demanding an immediate explanation for this bizarre, olfactory assault on his chambers. Rosa remained impassive, though her nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as she mentally filed 'introduction of potent bovine excrement odor' under 'highly anomalous, potentially irrational presentation tactic'. She observed Lloyd closely, trying to discern the logic, however obscure, behind this move.

Lloyd ignored their reactions, stepping forward smoothly, taking the burlap bundle from a trembling Jasmin. "Thank you, Jasmin. Place it here." He indicated the floor directly in front of his father's desk, a space usually reserved for supplicants bearing petitions or officials presenting reports. He unwrapped the bundle with deliberate care, revealing a hefty pile of fresh, steaming cow dung. The smell intensified, thick and cloying, aggressively real.

Milody gasped, genuinely horrified now, pushing her chair back slightly. "Lloyd! Have you taken leave of your senses?! Remove that… that filth immediately! This is outrageous!"

"Patience, Mother," Lloyd said calmly, his voice steady despite the rising tension. He then performed the action that shocked everyone into momentary silence: he deliberately, carefully, scooped up a generous handful of the dung. He rubbed it between his palms, coating his hands thoroughly in the muck. The physical act, the deliberate self-contamination in front of his appalled parents and his inscrutable wife, was profoundly jarring, a violation of every noble sensibility, every rule of decorum.

"Lloyd!" Milody shrieked, half rising from her chair again, her face pale with outrage and utter disbelief. "What in the name of the ancestors are you doing?! This is beyond improper! It's… it's madness! Sheer, utter madness!"

Roy’s hand shot out, gripping his wife’s arm gently but firmly, preventing her from intervening further, though his own face was now a thunderous mask. His eyes remained locked on Lloyd, narrowed, no longer just confused, but intensely, furiously demanding. There had better be a damn good reason for this deliberate provocation, his expression screamed silently across the desk. A reason beyond mere shock value.

Lloyd ignored his mother’s outburst, ignored his father’s thunderous silence, ignored Rosa’s unnervingly calm, analytical observation. He looked down at his dung-covered hands, acknowledging the visceral reality of the mess. Then he looked up, meeting his father’s gaze directly, his own expression shifting, becoming serious, focused, the theatrical element dropping away.

"Now, Father," he began, his voice ringing with theatrical clarity, "the problem." He held up his soiled hands. "Filth. Grime. Contamination. A universal constant. How does one achieve true cleanliness? Effectively? Efficiently? Without damaging the very hands that perform the work?"