Soap. Real soap. Not the harsh, lye-heavy bricks we were used to. Soap that smelled clean. That healed cracked skin. That nobles wanted—and commoners needed. Then came shampoos. Candles that burned evenly and smelled like peace itself. Strange spreads she called peanut butter. Coffee beans—dark, bitter, addictive.
She never forced a contract. She never demanded loyalty. She simply… helped.
"Try this," she would say.
"Does this work?"
"Tell me if your people need medicine."
When my little sister fell sick—fever burning her small body—Lady Seraphine herself provided medicine. No charge. No announcement. She even asked later, gently, if the girl was sleeping better.
She asked my mother how she was holding up.
Advised my father on shop layouts and storage methods.
Suggested architectural changes for the new house they were building near the outskirts.
And then she vanished again—back to her chaos, her inventions, her impossible adventures.
