He bypassed the main dining hall, grabbing a quick roll and some cheese from a passing servant tray, needing fuel but unwilling to face his father’s potentially probing gaze just yet. His destination was the heart of the estate's logistical machine: the kitchens.
The controlled chaos was already in full swing, the air thick with the familiar symphony of smells and sounds. Lloyd moved with newfound purpose, ignoring the curious stares and hushed whispers that still tracked his presence like persistent flies. He headed straight for the butchery section, the metallic tang of raw meat sharp in the air.
Jasmin was there, already hard at work, her small frame surprisingly efficient as she wielded a heavy cleaver with practiced precision. She looked up as he approached, her eyes widening momentarily in alarm before settling into a look of nervous anticipation. She quickly wiped her hands, dropping into a hurried curtsy.
"Y-Young Lord," she stammered, color rising in her cheeks. "You… you returned."
"Indeed, Jasmin," Lloyd replied, keeping his voice calm and low, mindful of nearby ears pretending not to listen. "And successful, I trust?"
Jasmin nodded eagerly, her nervousness momentarily eclipsed by pride in her accomplishment. "Yes, my lord! As you instructed!" She gestured towards a collection of large, sealed earthenware jars tucked discreetly behind a stack of empty crates in a cooler corner of the butchery area. "The tallow. I collected the trimmings daily, rendered it down myself after my main duties were done. Kept it clean, stored it away from the main larders."
She led him over, carefully removing the heavy lid from one of the jars. The rendered beef fat within was pale, clean-smelling (or rather, lacking the usual rancid undertones of poorly stored tallow), and solidified into a smooth, waxy mass. Lloyd peered inside, mentally estimating the quantity. Several large jars, each holding gallons. Enough. More than enough for initial experiments.
"Excellent work, Jasmin," Lloyd said, genuine approval warming his voice. He saw her visibly brighten under the praise. "Exactly what I needed. You've exceeded expectations."
"Thank you, my lord," she murmured, dropping her gaze again, though a small smile touched her lips. "I… I am glad to be of service. Will you be taking it now?"
"Not just yet," Lloyd replied. "Storing it here is perfect for now – discreet, cool. But you've completed the first part admirably." He paused, letting the anticipation build slightly. "Now, we move to the next phase. The part where I begin my work."
Jasmin looked up again, curiosity replacing the nervousness in her dark eyes. "Your work, my lord?"
"Indeed," Lloyd confirmed. "To make what I intend to make, fat is only half the equation. We need its chemical counterpart. A special kind of water, you could say. Something extracted from ash, something… potent."
He saw the confusion furrow her brow. "Special water, my lord? From ash?" The concept was alien, nonsensical based on her understanding of the world. Ash was just… waste from the fire.
"Exactly," Lloyd affirmed, leaning in slightly conspiratorially, lowering his voice further. "Think of it as… the hidden fire within the ash, drawn out by water. A substance powerful enough to transform things. But also," he added seriously, "dangerous if not handled correctly."
Jasmin’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of alarm mixing with her confusion. Dangerous? What strange magic was the Young Lord pursuing now? First tallow, now dangerous ash-water?
"Not dangerous in the way of magic spells," Lloyd clarified quickly, sensing her unease. "More like… the way a blacksmith’s forge is dangerous if you touch the hot metal. It requires respect, care. Control." He saw her relax fractionally. "And for this process, we need somewhere quieter than this." He glanced around the bustling kitchen. "More private. And we need the right kind of ash."
Jasmin hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Her loyalty, bought with the promise of her mother's health and triple wages, warred with her inherent caution and bewilderment at these strange requests. But loyalty, fueled by desperation and a growing belief in this surprisingly knowledgeable (if slightly eccentric) young lord, won out.
"May I… may I assist you further, my lord?" she asked timidly, yet with an underlying eagerness. "May I see… what you intend to create? I wish to be useful."
Lloyd considered. He needed help collecting the ash, managing the extraction process. Having Jasmin involved from this stage would bind her more closely to the project, make her a true accomplice rather than just a supplier. And explaining the process to her would solidify it in his own mind, forcing him to articulate the steps clearly. The risk of revealing unusual knowledge was present, but manageable. She was already indebted, already sworn to secrecy.
"Very well, Jasmin," he agreed after a moment's thought. "Your discretion is paramount, remember? What you see, what we discuss, stays between us."
"Yes, my lord! Absolutely!" she promised fervently, relief and excitement washing over her face.
"Good. Then gather more empty buckets – sturdy ones, preferably wooden – and meet me near the weeping willows by the secluded pond in one hour. We have ash to collect."
Leaving Jasmin scrambling to find suitable buckets, her mind buzzing with bewildered excitement, Lloyd headed towards the estate's numerous fireplaces. He needed ash, specifically from hardwoods like oak or maple, burned cleanly. Softwoods like pine contained too much resin, producing a weaker extract unsuitable for his purposes. He spent the next hour moving discreetly through quieter sections of the estate, collecting cooled ashes from hearths, carefully sifting out chunks of unburned wood or debris, explaining his actions vaguely as 'soil enrichment experiments' to any curious servants he encountered. It was dirty, mundane work, a far cry from commanding lightning wolves or manipulating steel, but utterly essential.
An hour later, several buckets heavy with fine, grey hardwood ash sat beside the tranquil pond. The weeping willows trailed their green tendrils in the still water, the air peaceful, disturbed only by the chirping of birds and the low murmur of Lloyd explaining the next step to a wide-eyed Jasmin.
"Now, Jasmin," Lloyd instructed, gesturing towards one of the buckets. "We need to draw out that hidden potency from this ash. Rainwater is best, but pond water will suffice." He indicated the rudimentary setup he was constructing: punching small holes in the bottom of one bucket, placing it over another empty bucket, and layering straw or small pebbles in the bottom of the top bucket to act as a filter.
"We layer the ash carefully over the filter," he demonstrated, scooping handfuls of the fine powder. "Then, we slowly pour water over it." He took a dipper of pond water and began trickling it gently onto the ash bed. "Watch closely. The water passes through the ash, dissolving something hidden within it, something powerful. This liquid that drips out," he pointed as the first cloudy, brownish drops began to seep through the drainage holes into the collection bucket, "carries that power."
Jasmin watched, fascinated, her eyes fixed on the slowly dripping liquid. It didn't look like much – just dirty water. Yet the Young Lord spoke of it with such seriousness, such caution. "This… this is the special water, my lord? The hidden fire?"
"In a weak, impure form, yes," Lloyd confirmed. "This is the essence we need. But it's not yet strong enough for our purpose. We’ll need to pass this water through the ash many times, letting it dissolve more and more of that hidden substance. Or," he added thoughtfully, "we might carefully boil some of the water away later, concentrating the potency."
He met her gaze, his expression serious. "But listen carefully, Jasmin. This liquid, even now, is not like normal water. It’s… aggressive. Caustic. It can irritate the skin, and if it were stronger, it could cause burns. Never touch it directly. Handle the buckets with care, avoid splashing. Understand?"
Jasmin nodded solemnly, her eyes wide with a newfound respect for the seemingly innocuous dripping liquid. It wasn’t just dirty water; it was something potent, something requiring caution. "Yes, my lord. I understand. Extreme care."
She watched him work, slowly, patiently adding water, monitoring the dripping liquid accumulating in the lower bucket. The process was slow, tedious.
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"But why, my lord?" she finally asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why do we need this… this strong, burning water? You mentioned the fat…"
Lloyd paused, looking up from his work, meeting her curious gaze. He offered a small smile. "An excellent question, Jasmin. It comes down to transformation. A kind of alchemy, perhaps, though simpler than what the Guild masters practice."
He picked up a small twig. "Think of the fat," he drew a simple chain shape in the dirt, "like this. Long chains, greasy, content on their own, unwilling to mix with water." He then drew a small circle next to it. "And think of this special ash-water as this – energetic, eager to react, to change things."
"When we carefully combine the right amount of heated fat with the right strength of this ash-water," he drew the circle attaching to the chain, breaking it, "a wonderful reaction happens. A transformation. The ash-water breaks down the fat molecules. It rearranges them. Creates something entirely new." He smoothed the dirt. "It creates soap – special particles that have one end that loves water and another end that loves grease. That’s how soap cleans, by grabbing the grease and letting the water wash it away. And," he added significantly, "it also creates glycerin, a natural softener that makes the final product gentle, not harsh. Well, you know what it is? A simple dimple Soap."
He looked at Jasmin, gauging her understanding. Her eyes were wide, not just with confusion now, but with dawning wonder.
"You… you are making soap, my lord?" she breathed, the pieces clicking into place. The tallow, the mysterious ash-water… it was all for soap? "Not buying it, but… creating it? From ash and fat?"
"Precisely," Lloyd confirmed. "But not the harsh stuff used for scrubbing floors or tanning hides. We're aiming higher. Gentle soap. Luxurious soap. Soap fit for a Duchess… or perhaps even," he added with a wry internal smile, "an Ice Princess wife who looks perpetually displeased with the state of the world."
Jasmin stared at him, then at the slowly dripping bucket containing the potent ash-water, then back at him, awe shining in her eyes. The Young Lord wasn't just knowledgeable about court matters or fighting; he understood the hidden connections between things, the secret ways to transform simple, even dangerous, substances like ash-water and common fat into something refined, valuable, useful.
"My lord," she whispered, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. "You… you possess such incredible knowledge. About… about many thing." The praise was heartfelt, bordering on worshipful. It wasn't just about soap anymore; it was about witnessing a mind that saw possibilities where others saw only waste.
Lloyd simply smiled, turning back to the dripping bucket. Knowledge was power, yes. But right now, this slowly accumulating, potentially caustic liquid felt more immediately valuable than any bookish theory. He had the fat, he had the means to create the alkali. The soap empire, however small and rustic its beginnings, was officially under construction.
—-
The patient dripping continued, echoing softly in the quiet sanctuary by the pond. Hours passed under the dappled sunlight filtering through the weeping willow leaves. Lloyd and Jasmin worked steadily, collecting the brownish, potent liquid – the lye solution – as it slowly seeped through the beds of hardwood ash. They refilled the top buckets with fresh pond water, carefully managing the flow, their initial awkwardness replaced by a shared rhythm of focused labor. Jasmin, despite her initial bewilderment, proved a quick study, her natural dexterity translating surprisingly well from butchery knives to managing buckets and monitoring dripping rates.
Lloyd watched the accumulating liquid in the collection buckets, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Alright, Jasmin," he finally declared, straightening up and wiping a smear of grey ash from his cheek. "We have a decent volume now. But quantity isn't enough. We need the right strength."
He gestured towards the murky lye solution. "This 'hidden fire' within the ash-water… it needs to be potent enough to properly transform the fat. Too weak, and the reaction won't complete, leaving us with greasy sludge instead of soap. Too strong, and we risk having unreacted, caustic lye left in the final product, which would be harsh, even dangerous, on the skin."
Jasmin nodded solemnly, absorbing the information. "So how… how do we know if it's the right strength, my lord?" she asked, her curiosity piqued again. "It just looks like dirty water."
"Ah," Lloyd smiled, reaching into a small pouch at his belt. "For that, we rely on a simple, time-tested method. One often used by old wives and traditional soap makers." He produced his secret weapon: a fresh, ordinary chicken egg.
Jasmin blinked. "An egg, my lord?"
"Precisely," Lloyd confirmed. "Nature provides its own measuring tools, sometimes. Watch." He carefully took one of the collection buckets, swirling the brownish lye solution gently. Then, with utmost care, he slowly lowered the raw egg into the liquid.
They both watched intently. The egg sank straight to the bottom of the bucket like a stone.
Lloyd sighed, though not entirely surprised. "See? Too weak. The solution isn't dense enough, not strong enough, to support the egg's weight." He fished the egg out carefully with a slotted wooden spoon he'd brought, rinsing it in the pond. "If it were the right strength," he explained, holding up the clean egg, "the egg would float, with just a small portion – about the size of a silver coin – showing above the surface. If it floats too high, or completely on top, it means the lye is too strong, too concentrated."
Jasmin stared, fascinated. "An egg tells you all that?"
"It gives us a good indication," Lloyd confirmed. "Crude, perhaps, compared to the hydrometers I remember from… other studies," he caught himself quickly, "but effective enough for our purposes." He surveyed their setup. "So, our current lye is too weak. We need to concentrate it."
"How do we do that, my lord?" Jasmin asked eagerly, ready for the next step.
"Two primary methods," Lloyd explained, already moving towards the buckets. "First, we can simply pass this collected lye water back through the same ash bed again. Each pass allows the water to dissolve a little more of that hidden potency, gradually increasing the strength." He demonstrated, carefully pouring the weak lye from the collection bucket back into the top bucket filled with ash. "Slowly now, let it seep through again."
"The second method," he continued, pointing towards a clear patch of ground nearby where he'd gathered some dry stones, "is concentration through heat. If we carefully heat the lye solution, some of the water will evaporate, leaving the dissolved 'hidden fire' behind in a smaller volume, making it stronger. But," he cautioned, "this requires careful heat control. Boiling it too vigorously can cause dangerous sputtering, and we risk concentrating it too much, making it overly harsh."
He looked at Jasmin. "For now, let's focus on the first method. Re-filtering. It's slower, safer for our initial attempts."
Together, they began the laborious process. Carefully collecting the lye as it dripped through, then pouring it back over the ash beds, repeating the cycle. It was slow, repetitive work, requiring patience and careful handling of the increasingly potent liquid. Lloyd insisted Jasmin wear thick leather work gloves he'd procured from the stables, constantly reminding her to avoid any splashes on her skin.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, reaching its zenith before beginning its slow descent. The air grew warmer. Lloyd and Jasmin worked in companionable silence, broken only by his quiet instructions or her occasional, timid questions about the process. He found himself explaining the basic concepts simply, relating the 'hidden fire' (alkali) to its opposite, the sourness of vinegar (acid), talking about how they balanced each other. He avoided complex chemical terms, relying on analogies she could grasp.
Finally, after multiple passes, the lye solution dripping into the collection buckets looked subtly different – perhaps clearer, though still brownish, carrying a slightly sharper, cleaner scent.
"Alright," Lloyd declared, wiping sweat from his brow. "Let's test it again."
He took the bucket of re-filtered lye, swirled it gently, and once more, carefully lowered the raw chicken egg into the liquid.
This time, the egg didn't sink. It bobbed, hesitated, then settled, floating stably within the lye solution. A small, distinct circle of the eggshell, roughly the size of a standard silver coin, remained visible above the surface of the brownish liquid.
Jasmin gasped softly, leaning closer, her eyes wide with wonder. "It… it floats! Just like you said, my lord!"
A slow smile of deep satisfaction spread across Lloyd’s face. It worked. The crude, ancient method, guided by his remembered knowledge, had yielded the desired result. "Perfect," he breathed, relief washing over him. "Just the right strength. Not too weak, not too strong. Ready for the next stage."
He carefully removed the floating egg, admiring the successful result for another moment. They had done it. They had created usable, correctly concentrated lye from simple wood ash and water.
"So now, my lord?" Jasmin asked, her voice filled with anticipation, glancing towards the jars of rendered tallow stored back in the kitchens. "Now we… we mix them?"
"Now," Lloyd confirmed, the excitement building within him again, chasing away the fatigue, "the real transformation begins. Now, Jasmin, we make soap." He looked towards the setting sun, calculating the remaining daylight. Time was precious. The soap empire wouldn't build itself.
-------
The late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows across the secluded clearing by the pond as Lloyd carefully decanted the last of the precious, correctly concentrated lye solution into a sturdy, stoppered ceramic jug. The air, usually peaceful and smelling of damp earth and willow leaves, now carried a faint, sharp, almost metallic tang – the signature scent of the potent alkali they had painstakingly extracted from simple wood ash. Jasmin stood beside him, wiping her brow with the back of a gloved hand, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of fatigue, lingering apprehension, and undeniable fascination. They had done it. They had created the 'burning water', the hidden fire.
"Alright, Jasmin," Lloyd declared, securing the stopper firmly in the jug. He handled it with deliberate care, reinforcing the respect this substance demanded. "Phase two complete. We have our alkali." He hefted the surprisingly heavy jug. "Now, for the main event. The transformation."
He looked around the tranquil pond setting. Ideal for the slow, messy process of lye extraction, but utterly unsuitable for the next stage. "We can't do the mixing here. We need controlled heat, shelter, and proximity to our primary ingredient." He nodded back towards the distant silhouette of the estate buildings. "Back towards the kitchens. But not in the kitchens."
The last thing he needed was Martha the Head Cook stumbling upon them boiling strange concoctions of fat and caustic liquids, asking pointed questions he couldn't easily answer. Discretion remained paramount.
"There's an old, disused smokehouse behind the east wing storage sheds," Lloyd mused aloud, accessing memories from his first life, recalling explorations driven by teenage boredom. "Solid stone construction, decent ventilation from the old chimney, a cold hearth we can adapt, and importantly, rarely visited." He looked at Jasmin. "Can you guide us there discreetly? Avoiding the main paths?"
Jasmin nodded immediately, her initial timidity resurfacing slightly at the prospect of navigating unseen, but overshadowed by her commitment. "Yes, my lord. I know the back ways, the service paths. We can reach the old smokehouse without drawing attention, especially now as the evening shift change begins." Her knowledge of the estate's underbelly, honed by years of navigating the servant world, was invaluable.
"Excellent." Lloyd handed her one of the lighter, empty buckets they'd used. "Carry this. We'll need it for rinsing later." He carefully lifted the heavy jug of lye solution himself, cradling it securely. "Lead the way, Agent J," he murmured with a hint of wry humor, using the nickname he’d mentally assigned her.
Jasmin blinked at the unfamiliar title but understood the implied trust. She nodded again, a flicker of determination in her eyes, and set off at a brisk pace, leading him away from the pond, down narrow, overgrown paths weaving between neglected shrubbery and the high outer walls of the kitchen gardens. Lloyd followed, matching her pace, the weight of the lye jug a tangible reminder of the potential – and the danger – he carried.
The old smokehouse stood exactly as Lloyd remembered: a squat, windowless structure of soot-stained stone, nestled behind overflowing woodpiles and forgotten gardening tools. A heavy wooden door, warped and weathered, hung slightly askew on rusted hinges. The air inside smelled faintly of decades-old woodsmoke, damp earth, and neglect. A thick layer of dust coated everything, undisturbed for years. Perfect.
"Right," Lloyd said, setting the lye jug down carefully on the dusty stone floor. "First, we need equipment."
Their next hour was a whirlwind of discreet scavenging and improvisation. Under Lloyd's direction, Jasmin slipped away and returned with items 'borrowed' from the kitchen's outer storage or less-used sections: a large, heavy-bottomed iron cauldron usually reserved for boiling laundry or rendering lard (thoroughly scrubbed clean under Lloyd's supervision using sand and water), two long, sturdy wooden paddles normally used for stirring vats of stew, several smaller earthenware bowls for measuring, and thick leather aprons to supplement their gloves. Lloyd himself located some relatively clean sacking to lay on the floor and procured flint and steel, along with a small bundle of dry kindling and larger logs from the nearby woodpile to build a controlled fire in the smokehouse's cold, stone hearth.
He also had Jasmin retrieve one of the large jars of rendered tallow she had prepared, lugging the heavy container back to their makeshift laboratory.
As Lloyd coaxed a small, steady fire to life in the hearth, carefully arranging the logs to provide consistent, moderate heat, he took a moment to brief Jasmin again, his tone serious.
