Three days after her meeting with Edmund Erwell, Marron found herself making soup.

Not stress-cooking this time—though there was plenty to be stressed about—but actual, deliberate soup preparation for a specific purpose. She'd received a message that morning from an unexpected source, and it had sent her straight to her kitchen with ingredients and intentions.

The message had been simple:

Chef Louvel,

I would like to continue our conversation. Not as an interrogation, but as two people who care about the same things from different perspectives. If you're willing, I'd like to invite you to my home. I'll prepare a meal. You can see my collection, understand my concerns more fully, and perhaps we can find common ground.

Tomorrow evening, if that suits. My address is enclosed.

Edmund Erwell

Marron had read it three times, looking for threats or manipulation, and found only... invitation. Almost vulnerability. Edmund wanted to show her something, explain something, bridge the gap their lunch meeting had revealed.

She could refuse. Probably should refuse. Going to the home of an obsessive collector who wanted her tools seemed objectively unwise.

But Mokko's earlier advice echoed in her mind: You could study him too.

And there was something in Edmund's message—that phrase "two people who care about the same things from different perspectives"—that made her think maybe, possibly, there was a conversation worth having here.

So she'd accepted. With conditions.

She would come. She would bring Mokko as companion. And she would bring soup—because showing up to someone's home for dinner without contributing felt wrong, and because soup was her language, the way she understood the world and communicated care.

Which was how she found herself at noon, standing in her small kitchen, preparing what she privately thought of as "the soup of understanding."

She'd chosen minestrone. Or rather, Lumeria's version of it—a hearty vegetable soup that had been made essentially the same way for generations. Humble food elevated through care and time. The kind of soup that fed families, sustained communities, showed up at celebrations and funerals alike.

The kind of soup that said: I see you. I hear you. Even if we disagree, I recognize your humanity.

Marron started with the base—onions, celery, and carrots diced into neat, even pieces. The copper pot warmed slowly on her stove, patient as always, while she added olive oil and began the slow process of building flavor.

"You're going to a stranger's house," Mokko said from his position by the window. He'd been quiet all morning, watching her cook with an expression that suggested he had thoughts but wasn't sure if he should voice them.

"I'm going to Edmund Erwell's house," Marron corrected. "With you. To have a conversation."

"An obsessive collector's house."

"An academic's house," Marron countered, stirring the vegetables as they softened. "Who happens to collect historical objects. Who lost something important and is trying to prevent that loss from happening again."

"By controlling everything he finds."

"Maybe." Marron added garlic to the pot—the smell bloomed immediately, rich and warm. "But maybe I can help him understand there are other ways to prevent loss. That use isn't the same as carelessness. That trust isn't the same as naivety."

Mokko rumbled something that might have been agreement or concern. "You're very optimistic about this."

"I'm trying something different," Marron said. She added tomatoes—fresh ones from the market, diced and juicy. "With the Merchant's Guild, I confronted them directly. Made them defend their position, prove their claims. But with Edmund... I think confrontation will just make him defensive. More convinced that I'm reckless and need to be controlled."

"So instead?"

"Instead I'll show him." Marron gestured at the soup, at the careful preparation, at the quality ingredients being treated with respect. "I'll show him that I understand what I'm carrying. That I'm not careless or ignorant. That I can be trusted to use tools properly even if my definition of 'properly' differs from his."

She added broth—rich chicken stock that she'd made herself two days ago, simmering bones and vegetables until they gave up everything they had. Then came the beans—she'd soaked them overnight, three different varieties, each one offering different texture and flavor. White beans for creaminess, red beans for earthiness, dark speckled beans for visual interest.

Then vegetables: diced rootknots (turnip-potato hybrids), greenspire leaves (kale-chard equivalent), sunpods (hardy year-round peas), traditional carrots, celery, and tomatoes. Each ingredient added at the right time, at the right temperature, building layers of flavor and nutrition.

Lucy watched from her jar on the counter, forming shapes that suggested she was following the process with rapt attention.

"This soup," Marron said, more to herself than Mokko, "has been made essentially the same way for three hundred years. Generations of cooks, all making the same choices—these vegetables, this method, this balance. Not because they were forced to, but because it works. Because it's good."

"And you're making it to prove what, exactly?"

"That tradition isn't about preservation through non-use," Marron said. "It's about preservation through continuation. This soup survives because people keep making it, keep teaching it, keep adapting it to available ingredients while maintaining its essential character." She added pasta—small shells that would cook in the broth, adding substance and texture. "Edmund thinks preservation means locking things away. But this soup proves preservation can mean the exact opposite."

Mokko was quiet for a moment, then smiled slightly. "You've really thought this through."

"I've been thinking about it since our lunch meeting," Marron admitted. She added herbs—thyme, bay leaves, a basil-equivalent that grew wild in Lumeria's climate. "Edmund's not wrong that tools can be lost. They can. The Infinite Ladle he mentioned—it's gone now, probably forever. That's tragic. But is the answer to lock all remaining tools away so they can never be lost? Or is the answer to use them carefully, respectfully, while they're still here?"

"You already know which answer you believe."

"Yeah. But Edmund doesn't. Yet." Marron tasted the broth—it needed salt, a touch more pepper, maybe a squeeze of lemon at the end for brightness. "I'm hoping this soup can help him understand. That continuation is a form of preservation. That use with care is better than storage without purpose."

The soup simmered for the next two hours—Marron adjusting seasonings, adding ingredients at precise intervals, watching as separate components transformed into unified whole. The apartment filled with the smell of vegetables and herbs and slow-building flavor.

By mid-afternoon, the minestrone was ready. Dense with vegetables and beans, rich with broth, the pasta shells perfectly al dente. She portioned it into a large, sealable container—enough for several people, the kind of quantity that said "I'm feeding you" not "I'm bringing a token contribution."

She finished it with good olive oil drizzled on top and freshly grated hard cheese on the side, wrapped carefully.

"Alright," Marron said, looking at the container of soup. "Let's go meet a collector in his natural habitat and try to convince him that tools deserve to be used."

"And if he doesn't agree?"

"Then at least we'll both have eaten good soup," Marron said. "Sometimes that's enough."

Edmund Erwell's home was in the upper mid-district—the border between working Lumeria and wealthy Lumeria, where academics and mid-level merchants lived in comfortable but not ostentatious houses.

The building itself was neat and well-maintained, three stories of brick and timber with shuttered windows and a small garden out front. Not a mansion, but clearly the home of someone with resources and education.

Marron knocked at the door with Mokko standing slightly behind her, both of them carrying parts of the meal—Marron had the soup, Mokko had brought bread and wine at her request.

Edmund answered almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting by the door. He looked different here, in his own space—less formally dressed, just shirtsleeves and vest, the wire-rimmed glasses still present but his expression more relaxed than she'd seen it before.

"Ms. Louvel. Thank you for coming." His gaze shifted to Mokko. "And you must be her companion. Welcome."

"Mokko," the bearkin said, his tone professionally neutral.

"Please, come in." Edmund stepped aside, gesturing them into a narrow hallway that opened into what was clearly a scholar's home.

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