The next hour was a battle fought with paperwork instead of swords.

Millie and Marron tag-teamed the presentation, walking through each requirement:

Licensing: All twelve chefs were Guild-certified, with credentials that exceeded the decree's requirements. Millie provided certification numbers and verification from the Culinary Guild.

Brick-and-mortar: Home establishments were legally recognized commercial spaces under city code Section 14-C. Marron provided the exact regulation text, highlighted and annotated.

Health and safety: Each home kitchen had been inspected and approved by the city health office. Documentation provided, with inspector signatures and approval stamps.

Supervision: Partnership agreements specified regular quality checks, shared liability, and compliance monitoring. Sample agreements provided, showing comprehensive oversight structures.

Long-term viability: Several chefs had statements from vendors praising the partnership arrangement, confirming it worked better than traditional restaurant partnerships because it preserved vendor independence while providing necessary oversight.

With each piece of evidence, Marron watched Thade's expression grow more rigid. The council members shifted uncomfortably. They'd expected the coalition to fold under pressure, not come prepared with comprehensive documentation.

"This is all very thorough," Thade said when they finished, his tone suggesting it was anything but a compliment. "However, the council needs time to review—"

"The deadline is today," Marron interrupted. "You issued the decree thirteen days ago. You set the timeline. Vendors have been operating in good faith, following the requirements you established. You don't get to extend your review period now just because you don't like our solution."

"Ms. Louvel—"

"We've met every requirement," Marron continued, her voice carrying across the room. "Every single one. If you reject our partnerships now, you're not enforcing regulations—you're enforcing prejudice against street vendors. Against working-class people trying to make honest livings. Against the kind of food culture that's sustained this city for generations."

She was aware of how public this was. How many people were watching. How this could backfire spectacularly if she'd misjudged.

But she thought of Arrow, sitting behind her bread cart with stale loaves and quiet despair. Of a man named Marcus, who'd kept his egg bread business going for fifteen years after his wife died because she would have wanted that.

Of the forty-nine other vendors whose businesses were hanging in the balance.

"So I'm asking directly," Marron said, looking at Thade. "Do we meet the requirements or not? Because if we don't, tell us what regulation we violated. If we do, approve the partnerships and let these people keep their businesses."

The room held its breath.

Thade looked at her with something that might have been grudging respect or deep annoyance—possibly both. Then he looked at his council members. Silent communication passed between them.

"The council," Thade said finally, "recognizes that the documentation presented appears to meet technical requirements for partnership compliance."

Marron felt relief flood through her, but Thade wasn't finished.

"However," he continued, "we have concerns about the sustainability and oversight capabilities of home-based establishments operating at this scale. Therefore, the council is imposing additional requirements for these partnerships to remain valid."

Marron's stomach sank. "What requirements?"

"Monthly inspections of all partner vendor carts, documented and submitted to the Merchant's Guild for review," Thade listed. "Quarterly reports on partnership status and any health or safety incidents. And—" He paused. "A probationary period of six months, during which partnerships can be revoked if any violations are found."

"That's not in the original decree," Yasmin said, standing now. "You can't add requirements retroactively—"

"We can add requirements for compliance verification," the first council member countered. "These partnerships are unusual arrangements. Additional oversight is reasonable."

It was a compromise, Marron realized. Not a win, not a loss. The vendors would keep their businesses, but with extra bureaucratic burden and the threat of revocation hanging over them.

"What happens after six months?" Marron asked. "If we complete the probationary period with no violations?"

"Then the partnerships become permanent, with standard oversight applying," Thade said. "But Ms. Louvel—" His voice hardened. "If there are violations, if vendors or their partner chefs fail to maintain standards, we will revoke licenses without hesitation. This is your one chance. Don't waste it."

It wasn't what they'd fought for. But it was something.

"We accept the conditions," Marron said, before anyone else could speak. "Six months probation, monthly inspections, quarterly reports. We'll maintain standards. You'll have no grounds for revocation."

"We'll see," Thade said. He struck his gavel. "The partnerships are conditionally approved. Documentation will be filed by end of day. This hearing is adjourned."

+

The coalition practically stumbled out of the Merchant's Guild Hall, adrenaline and relief mixing into shaky exhaustion.

"We did it," Thomas said, sounding dazed. "We actually did it. They approved the partnerships."

"Conditionally," Charlotte corrected, but she was smiling. "With extra requirements and probation. But still. We did it."

"Six months of additional inspections," Iris said quietly. "That's a lot of extra work."

"But it's manageable," Millie countered. "And it means the vendors keep their carts. That's what matters."

Marron leaned against a pillar outside the Hall, her legs suddenly weak. They'd done it. Somehow, against a bureaucracy with infinitely more resources, against a Merchant's Guild actively trying to destroy them, they'd found a way to protect the vendors.

Not perfectly or permanently. But for now, it was enough.

"You were incredible in there," Mokko said, appearing at her side. "Confrontational, possibly foolish, but incredible."

"I was angry," Marron admitted. "But it worked."

"It worked because you were right," Mokko corrected. "And because you came prepared. Anger without evidence is just noise. You had both."

Lucy burbled triumphantly from her jar, forming a series of celebratory stars.

"We need to tell the vendors," Millie said, pulling out a list. "Get the word out before rumors spread. And we need to establish the inspection schedule, set up the reporting system—"

"Later," Marron interrupted. "Right now, we celebrate. Just for an hour. Then we figure out logistics." She looked around at the twelve chefs who'd risked everything on a desperate plan. "You all deserve to breathe for a minute before the next crisis hits."

"The next crisis?" Thomas asked, but he was smiling.

"There's always a next crisis," Marron said. "But this one? This one we survived."

They dispersed slowly—some heading back to their apartments, others going to find their partner vendors and share the news. Marron stayed leaning against the pillar, letting exhaustion catch up with her.

"Quite a performance."

Marron's head snapped up. Edmund Erwell was standing a few feet away, his leather journal tucked under one arm, those wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the midday sun.

"Professor Erwell," Marron said, straightening. Her heart was pounding again, for different reasons now. "I didn't realize you attended bureaucratic hearings for fun."

"I attend anything that interests me academically," Edmund replied smoothly. "Food culture, regulatory battles, grassroots resistance movements—all within my research purview." He adjusted his glasses. "You were quite eloquent in there. Confronting the Merchant Guild Master directly. Risky, but effective."

"I was telling the truth," Marron said carefully. "That tends to be effective."

"Does it?" Edmund's tone suggested he was testing something. "In my experience, truth is less important than power. But you seem to have found a way to make truth powerful." He pulled out his journal, flipping to a page covered in neat handwriting. "I've been documenting your movement. The partnership program, the vendor coalition, today's hearing. It's a fascinating study in community organizing."

"Is that why you've been following me? Academic documentation?"

"Partially." Edmund's eyes behind the glasses were sharp, assessing. "Though I admit, my interest has become more... specific lately."

Marron's throat went dry. "Specific how?"

"Your cooking methods. Your equipment. The way your food consistently produces unusually good results." Edmund closed the journal, watching her face carefully. "I have theories. About why that might be. But theories require evidence."

"And you think I have evidence?" Marron tried to keep her voice neutral.

"I think you have something remarkable," Edmund said. "And I think you're using it in ways that most people wouldn't recognize. But I do." He adjusted his glasses again—that habitual gesture. "We should talk, Ms. Louvel. Properly. Not in crowded hearing rooms or busy marketplaces. Somewhere private, where we can discuss... mutual interests."

"I don't know what interests we'd have in common," Marron said, though her heart was racing.

"Don't you?" Edmund smiled—polite, distant, hiding whatever he actually thought behind those glasses. "I think we both care about preserving things of value. We just have different ideas about what preservation means."

He tucked his journal away. "Think about it. My contact information is registered with the Academy. Eventually, you'll be ready to have that conversation. I'll be waiting for that day."

Mokko appeared at her side moments later. "What did he want?"

"To talk," Marron said quietly. "About my equipment. About preservation. About—" She stopped. "He knows, Mokko. Or he suspects enough that it doesn't matter. Edmund Erwell knows I have something unusual, and he wants it."

"Then we need to be more careful than ever," Mokko said grimly.

"I know." Marron looked in the direction Edmund had gone, toward the upper district, toward the Academy where he taught and collected and preserved things. "But not today. Today we've saved fifty vendors' livelihoods. Today we can breathe."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we figure out what to do about the collector who's watching me."

But that was tomorrow's problem.

Today, they'd won.

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