Books everywhere. That was Marron's first impression. Shelves covering every wall, stacked two-deep in places, organized by some system that probably made sense to Edmund but looked like controlled chaos to an outsider. The furniture was comfortable but worn—chairs that had been sat in for hours while reading, a desk covered in papers and notebooks, lamps positioned for optimal reading light.

It looked lived-in. Loved. The home of someone who spent their time thinking and studying and caring about ideas.

"Your soup smells incredible," Edmund said, leading them toward what must be the dining area. "What did you make?"

"Harvester's minestrone," Marron said. "Traditional recipe. It's been made essentially the same way for three hundred years."

Edmund paused, turning to look at her with sharp interest. "That's... a very specific choice."

"I thought it was appropriate," Marron said. "For a conversation about preservation."

Understanding flickered across Edmund's face. "Preservation through continuation versus preservation through storage. You're making a point."

"I'm making soup," Marron corrected. "The point is just a bonus."

Edmund's mouth twitched—it might have been a smile. "This way. I've set up in the dining room. I thought we could eat while we talk."

The dining room was more of what Marron expected—a long table covered in cloth, set for three people with careful precision. But the walls were what drew her attention.

Cabinets. Glass-fronted display cabinets, each one lit from within, each one holding historical artifacts arranged with museum-quality care.

Tools, mostly. Kitchen implements, craft objects, domestic items. Each one labeled with small placards that listed age, origin, purpose, acquisition date. Some were behind locked glass, others simply displayed.

Marron walked slowly along the wall, reading labels:

Ceramic mixing bowl, circa pre-cataclysm, eastern provinces. Used for bread-making. Acquired 1237.

Iron skillet, pre-cataclysm, central territories. Fire-hardened, never rusts. Acquired 1239.

Measuring cups, pre-cataclysm origin, maker unknown. Perfectly calibrated. Acquired 1235.

Dozens of items. Maybe hundreds. All carefully preserved, documented, lit so their details were visible.

All unused. Locked away. Stored but not serving.

"This is your collection," Marron said quietly.

"Part of it." Edmund moved to stand beside her. "I have more in storage—items that don't display well or are too fragile for regular exposure to light. But these are my primary holdings." His voice carried pride but also something sadder. "Each one represents craft knowledge we've largely lost. Techniques, materials, understanding of how to make tools that last centuries instead of decades."

"They're beautiful," Marron admitted. And they were—each object showed the kind of care and skill that modern manufacturing rarely achieved. But they were also trapped. Frozen in time, never fulfilling their purposes.

"But you think they should be used," Edmund said. It wasn't a question.

"I think they were made to be used," Marron said. "That mixing bowl was made for bread. That skillet was made for cooking. Storing them preserves their physical form, but it doesn't preserve their purpose."

"Using them risks destroying them."

"Living risks dying," Marron said—the same argument she'd made at lunch. "That doesn't make living wrong."

Edmund was quiet for a moment, looking at his collection. Then he gestured toward the table. "Let's eat. We can continue this discussion over your traditional soup."

They served the meal together—Marron ladling minestrone into bowls while Edmund sliced the bread Mokko had brought and poured wine into glasses. It was oddly domestic, this cooperation, like they were colleagues sharing a meal rather than adversaries in a philosophical debate.

The soup steamed in their bowls, fragrant and inviting. Marron had used the Generous Ladle to serve it—she'd brought the tool deliberately, wanting Edmund to see it in use—and the portions adjusted perfectly. Edmund received a moderate serving, enough for satisfaction without excess. Mokko got more, recognizing his larger frame and energy needs. Marron's own portion was smaller, acknowledging that she'd been tasting and adjusting all afternoon while cooking.

Edmund noticed. She saw his eyes track the different portion sizes, saw the wheels turning as he processed what that meant.

"Your ladle," he said carefully. "It's adjusting portions based on need."

"It understands what people require," Marron confirmed. "Not what they want, but what they need. Physical hunger, emotional comfort, nutritional balance—it accounts for all of it."

Edmund set down his spoon, staring at the ladle with naked hunger. "That's... that's a Legendary Tool. The real thing. Not replica, not enchanted—genuinely pre-cataclysm work."

"Yes."

"And you're using it to serve soup. In my dining room. As if it's ordinary equipment."

"It's not ordinary," Marron said. "But it's not meant to be locked away either. It was made by a cook named Therra who ran a soup kitchen. She spent three years learning to understand need well enough to imbue a tool with that knowledge. This ladle fed hundreds of people daily for decades. It was made for this."

Edmund's hands were shaking slightly as he reached toward the ladle, then stopped. "May I?"

"You can hold it," Marron said. "But it won't work for you. Not the way it works for me."

"Why not?"

"Because it chose me." Marron said it simply, stating fact. "Legendary Tools recognize intent. They respond to partnership, not possession. You could hold it, study it, document every detail. But it wouldn't serve proper portions for you. It would just be a ladle."

Edmund picked it up anyway, turning it over in his hands, examining the preserved leather wrapping, the symbols in the bowl that shifted and adjusted based on the user. His expression was complex—awe, desire, frustration, pain.

"This should be in a museum," he said finally. "Where scholars can study it. Where its historical significance can be properly documented and preserved."

"This should be feeding people," Marron countered. "Which is what it's doing. I'm documenting what I learn—you asked me to do that, and I'm honoring that request. But I won't lock it away. That's not what Therra intended when she made it."

"Therra died in the cataclysm," Edmund said. "Her city fell. She's gone. How can you possibly know what she intended?"

"Because the tool told me," Marron said. She pulled out a small notebook—she'd started keeping one after Edmund's request—and showed him a page where she'd written down the inscription that had appeared when the ladle accepted her: For the cook who gives not what is wanted, but what is needed. For the heart that understands the difference.

Edmund read it, his expression cracking slightly. "You can read the inscriptions."

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