His expression shifted—surprise, then recognition, then something complicated and sad.

"This is good," he said quietly. "Really good. Simple ingredients, traditional preparation, nothing revolutionary. But it works. It's satisfying in a way fancy food often isn't."

"That's the point," Marron said. "This soup has been made for three hundred years. It's been preserved through continuation—cooks teaching cooks, families passing recipes down, the tradition staying alive because people keep making it."

"You're suggesting my preservation method is wrong."

"I'm suggesting there are different kinds of preservation," Marron said. "And maybe the one you've chosen—storage without use—isn't the only valid option."

Edmund ate more soup, his expression thoughtful. "What if you're wrong? What if using tools daily does risk destroying them? What if your idealism leads to loss?"

"Then I'll have learned something," Marron said. "And I'll have used them properly while they were here. That's better than never using them at all."

Mokko, who'd been quietly eating his soup throughout this entire exchange, finally spoke up. "The soup is excellent, by the way. Traditional but not stale. Familiar but not boring. It proves her point—preservation through continuation works."

Edmund looked at the bearkin, then back at Marron. Something in his expression had shifted—not agreement, exactly, but maybe the beginning of consideration.

"I can't agree with you," Edmund said finally. "My experiences, my research, my understanding of historical preservation—they all tell me that use risks loss, that the safest approach is controlled storage."

"I know," Marron said.

"But..." Edmund paused, choosing words carefully. "I can acknowledge that your approach has internal logic. That you're not being reckless or ignorant. That you've thought about this and chosen your path deliberately."

"That's all I'm asking," Marron said. "Not agreement. Just acknowledgment that my choice is informed, not careless."

Edmund finished his soup, set down his spoon, and looked at her directly. "I'm still going to worry about those tools. I'm still going to watch what you're doing with them. Not to interfere—" He held up a hand as Marron started to protest. "But to document. To learn. To understand how this approach works in practice."

"That's fair," Marron said carefully.

"And if you're ever willing to let me study them—not take them, not possess them, just examine and document in detail—I would very much like that opportunity."

"Maybe," Marron said. "Someday. If the tools agree."

"They'd have to agree?" Edmund looked fascinated despite himself.

"They always have to agree," Marron confirmed. "That's how partnership works."

Edmund was quiet for a long moment, then stood and moved to one of his display cabinets. He unlocked it carefully, reached inside, and pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth.

He brought it back to the table and unwrapped it slowly.

Inside was a wooden spoon—beautifully carved, smooth with age and handling, inscribed with symbols that looked similar to those on Marron's tools but in a different hand, a different style.

"This," Edmund said quietly, "was made by my grandmother. Pre-cataclysm, before the fall. She was a cook, like you. She made this spoon to teach my mother, who used it to teach me. It's not Legendary—just well-made, imbued with family history and care."

He held it for a moment, running his thumb over the smooth wood, then offered it to Marron.

"I want you to have it," he said.

Marron blinked. "What?"

"I want you to have it," Edmund repeated. "Use it. Cook with it. Let it fulfill its purpose instead of sitting in my cabinet." His voice was rough with emotion. "I've kept it locked away for eight years, since I lost the Infinite Ladle. Keeping it safe. But you're right—storage isn't the same as preservation. Maybe... maybe it deserves to be used again."

Marron took the spoon carefully. It was warm from Edmund's hands, solid and well-balanced. The kind of tool that had cooked thousands of meals, been held by multiple generations, carried love and knowledge in its very grain.

"This is precious," she said.

"That's why I'm giving it to you," Edmund said. "Because I think you'll use it the way it was meant to be used. Because maybe—" He stopped, adjusting his glasses. "Maybe trust is still possible. Even after loss."

Marron felt her eyes burning. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Edmund said. "If you lose it or damage it, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' for the rest of eternity."

Despite everything, Marron laughed. "Deal."

They finished their meal in more comfortable silence. The minestrone was perfect—humble food elevated through care, traditional preparation honored through continuation. Exactly what Marron had intended.

When they were done, Edmund walked them to the door. He looked less rigid than when they'd arrived, less defended. Still wounded, still scared, but maybe slightly more open to the possibility that his way wasn't the only way.

"Thank you for coming," Edmund said. "And for the soup. And for... challenging me."

"Thank you for listening," Marron replied. "And for trusting me with your grandmother's spoon."

"Use it well," Edmund said. Then, quieter: "And Marron? Be careful. There are collectors worse than me. People who won't ask nicely or engage in philosophical debates. People who'll just take what they want."

"I know," Marron said. "But I'm not hiding. These tools deserve to be used."

"Idealist," Edmund said, but this time it sounded almost affectionate.

"Hopeful," Marron corrected.

She and Mokko left as evening was settling over Lumeria, the grandmother's spoon wrapped carefully in her bag, the Generous Ladle warm against her side.

"That went better than expected," Mokko observed.

"He gave me his grandmother's spoon," Marron said, still processing. "He's been keeping it locked away for eight years, and he gave it to me."

"Because you convinced him that use is a form of preservation," Mokko said. "That continuation honors craft better than storage."

"Or because he wanted to test whether I'll lose it," Marron said wryly. "Prove his point about trust being dangerous."

"Maybe both," Mokko said. "People are complicated."

They walked home through Lumeria's evening streets, and Marron thought about Edmund's collection, about tools trapped behind glass, about the grandmother's spoon warm in her bag.

Lumeria's warm glow and the sound of fellow vendors plying their wares filled her bones with comfort. Her mind was still processing everything that happened today.

I thought I wouldn't learn anything new when I arrived at Sir Edmund's place. But...I did.

The difference between preservation through continuation...and preservation through control.

Trusting people...versus fearing what they might do.

"Sometimes it's better to use things than lock them away, yeah?" She asked out loud.

Mokko nodded. "If you hadn't arrived at the cart, I still would've tried to bring it to an adventurer who would try."

Risking a loss was better than guaranteed emptiness.

Edmund hadn't agreed, but he'd listened.

That gesture opened up the possibility that another approach could work.

It wasn't a victory, but not a defeat, either.

Marron would take it, in any case.

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