Day three began with Mokko declaring it was time for a proper lesson.
"You can't just wing it forever," he said, climbing into the cart with surprising grace for something his size. The wooden floor creaked under his weight. "G-rank is about foundations. Get those wrong, and everything you build after will be shaky."
Marron nodded, feeling oddly like a student again. She'd pulled her hair back properly this morning and actually felt rested after sleeping inside the cart for once.
"So what are we learning?"
"How to properly prepare ingredients. Starting with knife work." Mokko moved toward the storage drawers. "First we need to—"
The drawer snapped shut before his paw could reach it.
Mokko paused. "Interesting."
"What?"
He reached for the drawer again. It opened, then immediately slammed shut the moment his claws got close.
"That's new," he muttered.
"What's new?" Marron watched, confused, as Mokko tried a third time. The drawer practically bounced away from him, shutting with a decisive click.
"The cart is being difficult." He sat back on his haunches and addressed the wall. "I know you're trying to help, but please let us explore the drawers. So we can put things in them. And don't shuffle things around again."
Marron stared at him. "Who are you talking to?"
"Not who. What." Mokko adjusted his glasses, looking mildly exasperated. "The cart has a mind of its own sometimes. Shuffles ingredients around, reorganizes things when you're not looking, that sort of thing. Usually it's quiet, but I guess it's energetic now because it's been so long since another chef was summoned."
"The cart is alive?"
"Not alive. Aware? Partially sentient?" Mokko waved a paw vaguely. "The System puts a bit of... personality into these things. Especially carts that have served multiple chefs. They develop preferences. Habits. This one seems to have decided I'm not allowed to touch the storage."
As if to prove his point, Marron reached for the same drawer. It opened smoothly, contents perfectly organized inside.
"See?" Mokko grumbled. "It likes you."
Marron looked at the drawer, then at the cart's interior, suddenly seeing it differently. The way the brass fittings had polished themselves after her first successful dish. The way ingredients she needed always seemed to be within easy reach. The way the stove's temperature had been more cooperative yesterday than the day before.
"So it's... what, helping me?"
"In its own way. Carts bond with their chefs. The longer you work together, the more attuned it becomes to what you need." Mokko snorted. "Though apparently this one has decided I'm just the hired help."
A different drawer popped open on its own—the one containing knives and cutting tools.
"I think it wants us to start the lesson," Marron said, trying not to laugh.
"Wonderful. At least someone's eager." Mokko moved to the small prep counter. "Alright. Knife work. Show me how you cut a potato."
Marron pulled out one of the regular potatoes—not the magical golden ones, just a standard root vegetable. She positioned it on the cutting board and picked up the chef's knife.
Her first cut was uneven. The second was better, but still not uniform.
"Too much force," Mokko observed. "You're fighting the potato. Let the knife do the work. Rock the blade, don't chop."
She tried again. Better, but still imperfect.
"Your grip is wrong. Move your hand further back on the handle. There. Now try."
They worked through the whole potato—slice after slice, Mokko correcting her form, her angle, her pressure. By the end, her cuts were noticeably more uniform, though still nowhere near professional.
"Better," Mokko said. "Do that a hundred more times and you'll start to feel it naturally."
"A hundred?"
"At least. Probably more." He gestured toward the storage. "Take out a carrot. Let's work on julienne cuts."
Marron reached for the vegetable drawer. It opened smoothly—but when she looked inside, everything had been rearranged since yesterday. The carrots were now on the left instead of the right. The greens were bundled differently.
"Did you...?"
"Not me. That's the cart's doing." Mokko sighed. "It reorganizes based on what it thinks you'll need. Sometimes it's helpful. Sometimes it's just showing off."
A small container of salt slid across the counter on its own, stopping perfectly within Marron's reach.
"Okay, that's actually kind of handy," she admitted.
"Wait until it hides something you're looking for because it thinks you should be using a different ingredient." Mokko's tone was dry. "That's when the relationship gets complicated."
They spent the next hour on knife work. Carrots into matchsticks. Onions into dice. Herbs chopped fine. Marron's hands cramped, her shoulders ached, and she was pretty sure she'd never look at a vegetable the same way again.
But by the end, her cuts were cleaner. More consistent. She could feel the difference in how the knife moved through the ingredients.
"Good," Mokko said, inspecting her work. "Not perfect, but good. Knife skills take time. Your mother taught you decent fundamentals—I can see that in how you hold the blade—but you're out of practice."
"She did most of the cutting," Marron admitted. "I was usually on stirring duty."
"Well, now you're on cutting duty too." He pushed another potato toward her. "Again. Precision matters in cooking. Uniform cuts mean uniform cooking. Otherwise, half your food is overcooked and half is raw."
Marron groaned but picked up the knife.
As she worked, she noticed something else. The cart's interior had gotten... warmer? Not uncomfortably so, but noticeably. Like it was trying to keep her comfortable while she practiced.
And the light coming through the window seemed perfectly positioned to illuminate her cutting board, even though the sun had shifted position outside.
"Is the cart doing that too?" she asked, gesturing at the light.
Mokko glanced up. "Probably. Like I said, it's trying to help. Gets more proactive the more it bonds with you."
"That's... actually really sweet."
"It's helpful until it decides you need a break and won't let you open the stove." Mokko's expression suggested this had happened to him before. "Or when it hides your favorite knife because it thinks you're overworking yourself."
"The cart can be overprotective?"
"Some of them get that way. Especially with chefs they like." He watched her finish the potato, nodded approvingly. "Now, let's talk about heat control. That's your next fundamental."
He moved toward the stove—and the flame immediately adjusted itself higher.
"Show-off," Mokko muttered.
Marron couldn't help but laugh. "I think it's excited."
"It's been dormant for months. Of course it's excited." He gestured for her to come closer. "The stove responds to intent at your rank. Not perfectly, but enough. You need to think about the temperature you want. Not just turn a dial and hope."
"Think about it?"
"Focus. Visualize. The System channels your intent into the flame." He stepped back. "Try it. Make it hotter."
Marron stared at the flame and thought: Hotter.
Nothing happened.
"You're not focusing. You're just thinking the word." Mokko's voice was patient. "Feel what 'hotter' means. Remember what it looks like when oil is ready to fry. The shimmer. The temperature. Hold that image."
She tried again, this time really visualizing—the way oil looked when it was hot enough, the way the air shimmered above it.
The flame jumped higher.
"There!" Mokko looked pleased. "That's it. Now bring it down. Think of a gentle simmer."
She pictured her mother's stew pot, the lazy bubbles at the surface. The flame lowered, settling into a steady burn.
"Better. You'll get faster with practice." Mokko moved back to give her space. "For now, just work on awareness. Pay attention to how different heats feel, look, sound. Cooking is about all your senses, not just taste."
They practiced temperature control until Marron felt confident she could at least adjust the flame intentionally, even if it took her a moment to focus.
"Good enough for today," Mokko finally said. "Tomorrow we'll work on timing. That's the hardest one for G-rank chefs—knowing when something is done without cutting it open to check."
"How do you know?"
"Experience. Intuition. Eventually, instinct." He climbed down from the cart, which creaked as if bidding him farewell. "For now, rest your hands. You're going to be sore tomorrow."
As Mokko left to forage for more ingredients, Marron stayed in the cart, organizing her workspace.
A drawer opened on its own. Inside was a small jar of hand salve she didn't remember seeing before.
"For me?" she asked the empty air.
The drawer nudged itself toward her slightly.
"Thank you," she said, feeling ridiculous talking to furniture.
But when she applied the salve, her cramping hands immediately felt better, and she couldn't help but smile.
"I think we're going to get along just fine," she told the cart.
Somewhere in the wood and brass and magic, she could have sworn she felt something warm and content in response.