Episode-727
Chapter : 1433
She marched out of her room, the ink bottle hidden in her pocket. She walked with purpose. She was going to war. A war of hearts.
She found Lloyd in the reference section. He was standing by a tall shelf, reading a book about structural engineering. He looked peaceful. He looked boring.
"Target acquired," Isabella thought.
She walked towards him. She timed it perfectly. Just as she passed him, she "stumbled." She let out a small, delicate gasp. She pulled the cork out of the ink bottle and splashed it all over the front of her white blouse.
"Oh no!" Isabella cried, perhaps a little too loudly. "My ink! My shirt! Whatever shall I do?"
She stood there, dripping black ink onto the floor, looking at Lloyd with wide, helpless eyes. She waited.
She expected him to panic. She expected him to offer his coat to cover the stain. She expected him to dab at it with a handkerchief while murmuring comforting words. She expected chivalry.
Lloyd looked up from his book. He looked at her shirt. He looked at the ink puddle on the floor. He looked at her face.
He didn't panic. He didn't offer his coat. He adjusted his glasses.
"Iron-gall ink," Lloyd observed. His voice was calm. Clinical. "Standard issue. High acidity. Terrible viscosity."
Isabella blinked. "What?"
"The stain," Lloyd said, pointing at her chest with a pen. "It is setting. You have about forty-five seconds before it binds to the fibers permanently. The cellulose in the cotton reacts with the iron salts."
"I... I am ruined!" Isabella tried again, adding a little wobble to her voice. "This was my favorite blouse!"
"Panic increases heart rate," Lloyd lectured. "Increased heart rate increases body temperature. Heat sets the stain faster. Calm down. It is just chemistry."
He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. He started writing.
"You need to neutralize the acid," Lloyd explained, not looking up. "Do not use water. Water will spread the pigment. You need an acid-base reaction. Do you have access to lemons?"
Isabella stared at him. "Lemons?"
"Citric acid," Lloyd said. "Or white vinegar. Mix it with salt. The sodium chloride acts as an abrasive absorbent. Apply it to the stain. Let it sit for ten minutes. Then rinse with cold milk."
He tore the page out of his notebook and handed it to her.
"Here," Lloyd said. "The formula for the solvent. Go to the kitchen immediately. Ask for a lemon. If they don't have lemons, ask for a lime. But adjust the ratio because limes are more acidic."
Isabella took the paper. She looked at it. It wasn't a love note. It was a chemical equation.
"You..." she stammered. "You are giving me a recipe?"
"I am giving you a solution," Lloyd said. He turned back to his book. "Now go. The clock is ticking. Oxidation waits for no princess."
Isabella stood there for a moment, her mouth open. She was covered in ink. She was holding a recipe for stain remover. And the man she was trying to seduce was ignoring her to read about bridges.
"You are the most unromantic man in the world!" she hissed.
"And you are the most stain-prone," Lloyd replied absently. "Run along now. Save the shirt."
Isabella turned and fled. She ran to the bathroom, furious and confused. Her tactical operation was a failure. A complete, catastrophic failure.
"Lemon juice and salt," she muttered, scrubbing at her shirt. "I will give him lemon juice and salt. In his eyes."
Lloyd watched Isabella run out of the library. He lowered his book. A small smile played on his lips.
"Nice try, Princess," he whispered.
He knew exactly what she was doing. He had the [All-Seeing Eye]. He had seen her uncork the bottle before she even "tripped." He had seen the lack of surprise in her muscles. It was a staged event. A bad one.
"Why does everyone think I am a character in a romance novel?" Lloyd wondered. "I am an engineer in a survival horror game. There is a difference."
He felt a little bad for embarrassing her. But only a little. She needed to learn that he wasn't a toy. And honestly, the ink stain advice was solid. It would save the shirt.
"She's persistent," Lloyd noted. "That's dangerous. Persistent people dig until they find bodies."
He went back to his reading. But he couldn't focus. The image of Isabella, covered in ink and looking furious, was stuck in his head. It was... funny. Actually funny.
Chapter : 1434
"Maybe I should have offered her a coat," he thought. "No. That would encourage her. Giving her a chemistry lesson establishes dominance. It says, 'I am smarter than your hormones'."
He closed the book. He needed to get back to the lab. Mina was waiting.
When he arrived at the Old Tower, Mina was organizing the archives. She looked up.
"You are late," she said.
"I was waylaid," Lloyd said. "By a princess and a bottle of ink."
"Isabella?" Mina asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yes. She tried to... I don't know. Connect? It was weird. She spilled ink on herself and expected me to fix it."
"And did you?"
"I gave her a recipe for cleaning fluid," Lloyd said proudly.
Mina stared at him. Then she started to laugh. She laughed until she had to hold onto the table.
"Oh, Lloyd," she gasped. "You are hopeless. She was trying to flirt with you!"
"Flirting involves words," Lloyd argued. "Not industrial accidents."
"It was a 'damsel in distress' gambit," Mina explained, wiping her eyes. "Classic. She wanted you to save her. To be gallant."
"I was gallant!" Lloyd protested. "I saved her shirt! That shirt costs more than a horse!"
Mina shook her head, still smiling. "You are a very strange man, Lloyd Ferrum. Most men would have jumped at the chance to help a princess undress... I mean, clean up."
Lloyd felt his face heat up. "I prefer my relationships to be based on mutual respect and shared interests. Not laundry emergencies."
"Well," Mina said, picking up a scroll. "I am glad you survived. But be careful. A woman scorned is dangerous. A princess scorned... is lethal."
"She'll get over it," Lloyd said dismissively. "She has a kingdom to run. She doesn't have time to obsess over a professor."
Meanwhile, in the Royal Guard Barracks...
Isabella was pacing again. She was wearing a clean shirt. She was holding a sword. And she was talking to a dummy that she had named "Professor Ferrum."
"He gave me a formula!" she shouted, stabbing the dummy. "A formula! 'Oxidation waits for no princess'! The nerve! The absolute arrogance!"
She slashed the dummy's head off.
"He thinks he is so smart," she growled. "He thinks he is so cold. But I know the truth. It is a mask. A thick, annoying, tweed mask."
She panted, lowering her sword.
"Chemistry," she whispered. "He likes chemistry. He likes logic. He likes... making things."
A new idea formed in her mind. A terrible, brilliant idea.
If seduction didn't work... maybe competition would. Maybe she needed to show him that she wasn't just a warrior. That she could be domestic. That she could create.
"Cooking," Isabella decided. "Cooking is just chemistry with food. I can cook. I am a princess. I have eaten food my whole life. How hard can it be?"
She smiled. It was a terrifying smile.
"Operation Seduce is cancelled," she declared to the headless dummy. "Commence Operation: Kitchen Domination. I will bake him a cake so perfect he will weep. And then he will have to admit that I am amazing."
She sheathed her sword.
"Tomorrow," she vowed. "Tomorrow, we bake."
Lloyd, safely in his tower, suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine.
"Someone walked over my grave," he muttered.
"Or someone is planning your funeral," Mina suggested helpfully.
"Probably," Lloyd sighed. "Probably."
The Royal Academy Kitchens were usually a place of organized chaos, filled with cooks shouting about soup and apprentices dropping potatoes. But today, the chaos was different. It was the chaos of a duel.
On one side of the large central island stood Princess Isabella. She was wearing an apron over her uniform. It had a little bear on it. She looked deadly serious. She had lined up twenty eggs, a sack of flour, and a whisk that she was holding like a dagger.
On the other side stood Lloyd. He was also wearing an apron. His was plain white and very clean. He had lined up a scale, a set of calipers, a thermometer, and a beaker. He looked like he was about to perform surgery on a muffin.
"The challenge is simple," Isabella announced. Her voice echoed off the pots and pans. "We will each prepare a dish. A dish that represents our soul. A dish of passion!"
"A dish of nutritional value," Lloyd corrected. "And structural integrity."
"The judge," Isabella pointed to the door, "has arrived."