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."
