My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 253: Marron’s Reservations

Chapter 253: Marron’s Reservations
"This is manipulation," Marron said to the tools. "You’re using logic to get what you want."
Yes,
the Copper Pot admitted.
But that doesn’t make the logic wrong.
Aldric touched her arm gently. "What do the tools say?"
"That I should go. That refusing to help is worse than technically violating the prohibition." Marron opened her eyes. "What do you say?"
He was quiet for a long moment, then: "I say this is exactly the kind of situation the Council didn’t anticipate when they wrote your restrictions. They were worried about you hunting down tools for collection. Not about tools essentially asking for your help through their owners."
"So you think I should go?"
"I think..." Aldric chose his words carefully. "I think you should do what you believe is right. And I’ll document it honestly in my , including the context and your reasoning. Let the Council decide if it’s a violation."
"They could confiscate my tools for this."
"They could. But they could also recognize that you’re being responsible. That you’re not hoarding artifacts or collecting them for power—you’re providing expertise to ensure proper care." He gestured at the letter. "This is exactly what the Society claims to want: proper stewardship of historical artifacts."
Marron looked at the letter again. At Marcus Vell’s careful words, his assurance of discretion, his genuine concern for an object he didn’t fully understand.
And she thought about the Fermentation Crock, sitting in his estate. Glowing amber. Fermenting food. Alive and aware and alone, with no one who could speak its language or understand its needs.
Four months ago, she would have jumped at this opportunity. Would have seen it as fate, as the universe providing exactly what she needed when she needed it.
But four months of re-learning her tools had taught her something about patience. About considering consequences. About the difference between what you wanted and what was right.
"I need to think about this," she said finally.
Aldric nodded. "Fair. The courier returns weekly. You have time."
"Not much. If the Crock needs care now—if it’s being damaged by improper use—"
"Then a few days won’t make much difference." Aldric’s voice was firm. "Don’t rush this decision because you feel pressured. That’s how mistakes happen."
He was right. Marron folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her apron pocket.
"I’m going to finish setting up for lunch service," she said. "Then I’ll think about it."
"Want company? Or do you need space?"
"Space, I think."
Aldric nodded and headed back toward the bakery, giving her the solitude she’d requested.
Marron turned to her cart and began the familiar ritual of preparation—lighting the fire plate, arranging her tools, organizing ingredients. The routine was soothing. Gave her hands something to do while her mind worked.
The tools hummed quietly, not pushing, but definitely waiting for her decision.
I know you want to see your sibling,
Marron thought toward them.
I understand that. But I can’t make this decision just based on what you want.
We know,
the Copper Pot said.
But Marron—we’ve been apart for so long. Centuries. And we may never be together again. If there’s a chance to at least confirm that our fifth is well, is being cared for properly, is not suffering...
The pot’s emotion bled through—grief and hope and desperate longing all mixed together.
We’re not asking you to bring it with us. We know that’s forbidden. We’re just asking... let us see. Let us know it’s all right.
Marron’s throat tightened. When she’d agreed to the Council’s terms, she’d known the tools would grieve. But knowing intellectually and feeling their actual grief were different things.
They’d accepted separation. Had made peace with never achieving reunion.
But this wasn’t reunion. This was just... acknowledgment. Confirmation. The same thing any separated family might want: proof that everyone was still okay, even if they couldn’t be together.
How could she deny them that?
But how could she risk everything she’d built—the fragile trust with the Council, the partnership with her tools, the freedom to continue her work—on a technicality?
[That Evening - Marron’s Room at the Inn]
Marron sat with Marcus Vell’s letter spread on the table before her. Lucy glowed softly in her jar, providing reading light. The four tools were unpacked, arranged in a semicircle, all of them focused on the letter like it was the most important document in the world.
Which, for them, it probably was.
"I want to hear from each of you," Marron said quietly. "Honestly. Not what you think I want to hear, but what you actually think. Should I accept this invitation?"
The Copper Pot pulsed first:
Yes. Because the Crock needs assessment. Even if we weren’t involved, even if we didn’t care about reunion, a Legendary Tool sitting unknown in a merchant’s estate requires expert attention. You have that expertise.
The Generous Ladle added:
Yes. Because refusing help when asked isn’t wisdom—it’s fear. The Council restricted you from seeking tools, not from responding when tools need you.
The Precision Blade hummed:
Yes. Because the letter’s reasoning is sound. Marcus Vell wants to understand and properly care for an artifact. That’s responsible ownership. Supporting that serves everyone’s interests.
The Food Cart, pulsing from across the room where it sat by the door:
Yes. Because our sibling has been alone for so long. We just want to know it’s all right. Please, Marron. Please let us see.
Their unity was absolute. All four wanted this, for different reasons, but the desire was the same.
Marron looked at Lucy. "What do you think?"
The little slime couldn’t speak in words, but she extended a tendril to touch the letter, then another to touch Marron’s hand. The gesture was clear:
Go. Help. It’s what you do.
"Even if it risks everything?"
Lucy pulsed—a sensation that felt like:
Some risks are worth taking.
Marron sat back and closed her eyes.
The practical part of her brain said this was dangerous. The Council could interpret this as violation. Edmund certainly would. She could lose everything she’d fought to keep.
But the part of her that had spent four months learning to truly understand her tools—the part that had listened to their grief and witnessed their acceptance of separation—that part said something else.
These tools had given up their fundamental purpose to stay with her. Had accepted permanent incompletion because the alternative was imprisonment. They’d made a sacrifice for her.
Maybe it was time for her to make one for them.
Even if it was risky. Even if it was technically questionable. Even if Edmund would rage and the Council would deliberate and Aldric would have to document every moment.
Some things were worth the risk.
Marron opened her eyes and picked up the letter.
"I’m going to write to Marcus Vell," she said. "I’m going to accept his invitation. And I’m going to do it openly, with Aldric’s full knowledge, so there’s no question about my intentions."
The tools erupted with joy—not loud, but palpable. Relief and gratitude and hope all mixed together.
Thank you,
they said in unison.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
"Don’t thank me yet," Marron warned. "This might destroy everything. Might get you all confiscated anyway, just in a different way."
Then we’ll face that together,
the Copper Pot said.
As partners. As family.
Marron pulled out paper and began drafting her response to Marcus Vell.
She would go to Lumeria. Would examine the Fermentation Crock. Would provide the expertise he’d requested and let her tools have their moment of reunion—however brief, however bittersweet.
And then she would face the consequences.
Whatever they might be.