My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 59

Chapter : 117

The first pale fingers of dawn had barely begun to caress the sky when Lloyd, true to his word, slipped from the shared suite, leaving behind the familiar, lumpy contours of the sofa and the silent, enigmatic presence of his wife. The weight of the previous day’s demonstration – the dung, the bottle, the astonished faces – still resonated, a strange mix of theatrical absurdity and triumphant innovation.

Left alone in the opulent quiet, Rosa Siddik remained motionless for a long while, a porcelain figure draped in shadow. The air still held the faintest, lingering trace of rosemary, a clean counterpoint to the memory of… other, less pleasant aromas. Finally, with the fluid, precise grace that characterized her every movement, she rose. The bed, a vast expanse of silk and down, remained untouched, a testament to the chasm that still defined their cohabitation.

Her path led her, as it often did in these early hours, towards the adjoining washroom. A sanctuary of marble and polished silver, it was a space for quiet ritual, for the necessary maintenance of an appearance that projected flawless, icy control. As she reached for the usual harsh block of household soap resting by the basin – a substance she tolerated rather than appreciated, its lye-heavy composition a daily affront to her skin – her gaze fell upon it.

The bottle.

Oak and steel. Simple, elegant, undeniably… intelligent. It sat on a small, carved side table where Lloyd had presumably placed it for her after his own messy demonstration yesterday, an unspoken offering. She hadn't acknowledged it then, her mind too busy processing the dung incident and the Arch Duke’s surprising reactions. But now, in the solitude of the morning, it commanded her attention.

She paused, hand hovering over the familiar, rough bar of lye soap. Her mind, an engine of relentless logic, replayed Lloyd’s claims, his mother Milody’s astonished delight, the clean scent of rosemary. Atypical behaviors. Unorthodox activities. This bottle was a product of those. A tangible result of the perplexing, almost manic energy her husband had displayed recently.

A flicker of something akin to curiosity – a sensation Rosa rarely indulged – stirred within her. Curiosity, or perhaps merely the logical imperative to assess a variable that had been introduced into her environment. She remembered Lloyd’s hands, caked in filth, then moments later, immaculate. She remembered the Duchess’s exclamation about the softness of her own skin after using it.

With a decisive, almost imperceptible shift in her resolve, she bypassed the lye block and reached for the oak dispenser. Her fingers, long and pale, closed around the smooth, cool wood. It felt… substantial. Well-crafted. She examined the steel pump mechanism, noting the precision, the clean lines. It was not the crude work of a common artisan.

Her internal monologue, usually a quiet stream of analytical data, offered a rare, almost hesitant observation: The design possesses a certain… functional elegance. Unexpected.

She positioned her other hand beneath the gleaming nozzle. For a fraction of a second, she hesitated. To use something he had not only made, but gifted? It felt… strangely intimate. A departure from their established, frigid protocols. But the practical need for cleansing, coupled with the unexpected aesthetic and the lingering memory of the Duchess’s reaction, overrode her usual reserve.

She pressed down on the steel pump head.

Click-hiss.

The sound was identical to yesterday’s demonstration – clean, precise. A measured dollop of the creamy, pale beige liquid landed softly on her palm. The scent of rosemary, subtle but distinct, rose to meet her. It was cleaner, less cloying than the heavy perfumes favored by most noblewomen.

Scent profile: herbaceous, clean. Texture: smooth, viscous. Her mind cataloged the data points.

She rubbed her hands together. The lather bloomed instantly, rich and dense, far more luxurious than the thin, reluctant foam of the lye soap. It felt… different. Softer. Less aggressive. She added a splash of cool water from the ewer, the lather expanding further, enveloping her hands in a creamy caress.

Lather quality: superior. Emulsification: rapid and complete.

As she rinsed, the soap washed away cleanly, leaving no residue, no tightness. Her skin, usually left feeling slightly stripped and parched by the harsh household soap, felt… surprisingly comfortable. She dried her hands on a soft linen towel, then brought them closer, examining them in the soft morning light.

They were clean, yes. But more than that. They felt… smooth. Velvety, as the Duchess had exclaimed. The skin retained a suppleness, a moisture, it usually lacked after washing. The faint scent of rosemary was a pleasant, lingering whisper.

Post-use dermal assessment: significantly reduced desiccation. Increased tactile softness. Residual fragrance: unobtrusive.

Chapter : 118

Rosa lowered her hands, her expression, as always, a mask of cool indifference. Yet, within the silent chambers of her mind, a single, uncharacteristically understated verdict formed.

"Not bad," she murmured aloud, the words barely audible in the quiet washroom. For Rosa Siddik, it was the highest form of praise, a concession of efficacy that bordered on astonished approval. This… soap… Lloyd’s creation… it was undeniably superior. A logical, efficient, even aesthetically pleasing improvement.

The anomaly that was Lloyd Ferrum continued to generate perplexing, yet increasingly compelling.

Meanwhile, in another wing of the vast Ferrum Estate, Lloyd stood before his father, Arch Duke Roy Ferrum. The atmosphere in the study was thick with anticipation, a stark contrast to the pungent chaos of yesterday’s dung-filled presentation. The offending pile was gone, thankfully, though a faint, rebellious ghost of its aroma seemed to linger, defiantly battling the study’s usual scent of old parchment and beeswax.

Two other figures were present, their expressions a mixture of professional curiosity and barely concealed bewilderment. Master Elmsworth, Lloyd’s economics tutor, looking slightly less flustered than after their previous intellectual skirmishes, fiddled with his spectacles, his gaze darting between Lloyd and the polished oak and steel dispenser bottle resting on the Arch Duke’s desk. Beside him, radiating an aura of quiet, scholarly intensity, was a man Lloyd recognized instantly: Alchemist Grand Master Grimaldi. Renowned throughout the Duchy for his encyclopedic knowledge of reagents, his skill in complex distillations, and his notoriously discerning palate for anything remotely alchemical, Grimaldi was the ultimate authority on magical and mundane concoctions. His presence signaled the seriousness with which Roy was treating Lloyd’s “soap enterprise.”

The dispenser bottle sat like a silent, elegant witness. Beside it, on a clean linen cloth, rested one of the hard soap bars Lloyd and Jasmin had poured two nights prior, now partially cured but still representative.

"Gentlemen," Roy Ferrum began, his voice the usual flat, authoritative tone, gesturing towards the items. "My son, Lloyd, has presented these… innovations. He claims they represent a significant advancement in personal cleansing and possess considerable market potential." He looked at Grimaldi. "Master Grimaldi, your assessment of the product's composition, if you please. Safety, efficacy, novelty."

Grand Master Grimaldi, a man whose silver beard flowed almost to his waist and whose eyes held the accumulated wisdom of centuries of alchemical lore (or so it seemed), leaned forward. His attention went directly to the elegant oak and steel dispenser. He gestured, and the attendant (Jasmin, looking terrified but proud, had been summoned again for this specific task, then quickly dismissed) carefully pumped a small amount of the creamy, rosemary-scented soft soap onto Grimaldi's outstretched, calloused palm.

The Grand Master brought the soft soap to his nose first, inhaling deeply, his expression thoughtful, analytical. He rubbed the smooth, viscous liquid between his fingertips, assessing its texture, its consistency. Then, with a splash of water provided from a nearby ewer, he worked it into a lather.

"Remarkable," Grimaldi murmured after a long moment, his voice a low rumble as he observed the rich, dense foam and the clean scent. He rinsed his hands, dried them, and then examined his skin with a keen, appraising eye. "Yes," he declared finally, his eyes gleaming with professional interest. "Truly remarkable." He turned to Roy, then to Lloyd. "Your Grace, Young Lord. The formulation of this… unguent… this cleansing cream… is elegant in its simplicity."

"Yes," Grimaldi declared finally, his eyes gleaming with professional interest as he wiped his hands clean. "Truly remarkable." He turned to Roy, then to Lloyd. "Your Grace, Young Lord. The formulation, from what I can discern through preliminary sensory analysis, is… elegant in its simplicity."

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Many alchemists, myself included, have dabbled in saponification, primarily for creating specialized cleaning agents for laboratory equipment or for the initial processing of certain raw reagents. Our methods are often crude, prioritizing sheer stripping power over gentleness. What Lord Lloyd has achieved here," he gestured to the soap, "is different. The balance is exquisite."

"The lye, the alkali," Grimaldi continued, "appears to have been perfectly neutralized by the fats. There's no residual causticity I can detect, which is a common failing in household soap production. This means it will be gentle on the skin, non-irritating." He looked directly at Lloyd. "You used tallow primarily for the hard bar, I presume? And perhaps a similar base for this softer unguent?"

Lloyd nodded. "Primarily beef tallow for these initial prototypes, Master Grimaldi. With a refined lye derived from hardwood ash." He deliberately kept his explanation simple, avoiding complex chemical terms that might seem out of place for a nineteen-year-old.