Lumeria's street market looked completely different during dawn. The sky bled pink-gold with fluffy white clouds, and all of the neon signs were turned off. The morning crowd hadn't arrived, and the scent of a hundred different vendors cooking wasn't here. It was odd.

Every vendor was just starting to set up their carts, arranging ingredients, and lighting their stoves. Some even drank flasks of coffee, preparing for the day.

It was quiet and honest, something Marron deeply related to.

Marron found Millie's cart easily—the white paint and gold accents gleamed even in the soft dawn light. The rabbitkin was already there, wearing a different apron today, this one embroidered with stars instead of moons. Her long ears were tied back with a ribbon, and she was humming something soft and melodic as she arranged her ingredients.

"You came early," Millie said without turning around. Her ears had probably heard Marron's footsteps before she'd even gotten close.

"You said early," Marron replied. "I didn't want to miss anything."

Millie turned, crimson eyes bright with approval. "Good. Most people hear 'early' and show up at a reasonable hour. You actually meant it." She gestured to a small stool beside her cart. "Sit. Watch first, ask questions after. That's how you learn anything worth knowing."

Marron sat, pulling out her notebook. Mokko settled beside her, and Lucy's jar was placed carefully on the cart's prep surface where she could see everything.

"So, moon cakes." Millie began, slipping into a teacher persona. "They need patience and precision, but aren't that difficult." She measured flour using her intuition instead of measuring cups, but it came together nicely. "Your dough needs to be soft, but not sticky."

She cut butter into the mixture until it resembled breadcrumbs. Then Millie added enough milk to create a smooth dough. Marron noticed she wasn't in a rush to complete her task.

"And then...the filling needs to be hot, but not tongue-burning. Then you need to use this pattern," she held up a small wooden stamp, its face carved with the crescent moon and three stars. "you need to press at the perfect moment. Too early, the dough is too soft and it blurs. Too late, the dough is too firm and it cracks."

"Cooking is a conversation," Millie said as she worked. "You're talking to the ingredients, and they're talking back. The dough tells you when it's ready. The caramel tells you when it's about to burn. You just have to listen."

Marron watched, fascinated, as Millie divided the dough into perfect little rounds and flattened each one into a disc. Then came the filling—caramel that had been cooked to a deep amber, cooled just enough to thicken, seasoned with a pinch of sea salt.

"The salt is important," Millie said, spooning caramel into the center of each disc. "It reminds you that sweetness alone isn't interesting. You need contrast. Balance." She folded the dough over the filling, pinching it closed with quick, precise movements. "Like presentation and taste. One without the other is incomplete."

Each filled cake was placed on a baking sheet, and then Millie picked up the wooden stamp.

"This is the part most people rush," she said. "They press too hard because they're afraid it won't show. Or too soft because they're afraid of ruining it. But you have to trust yourself. Press with confidence, but not force."

She demonstrated—placing the stamp on the first cake and pressing down with steady, even pressure. When she lifted it, the pattern was there: clean, delicate, perfect.

"Now you try," Millie said, handing the stamp to Marron.

"Me?" Marron's voice came out higher than intended.

"You. You can't learn just by watching."

Marron took the stamp, her hands suddenly feeling clumsy and too large. She positioned it over one of the cakes and pressed down.

Too hard. The dough squished slightly, the edges of the pattern blurring.

"Gentler," Millie said calmly. "It's not about force. It's about connection."

Marron tried again on the next cake. This time, barely any pressure at all.

The pattern was too faint, barely visible.

"More than that," Millie corrected. "Find the middle. Confident but kind."

Third try.

Marron pressed down, feeling the resistance of the dough, sensing when to stop. When she lifted the stamp, the pattern was there—not perfect, but clear. Visible. There.

"Better," Millie said, and there was warmth in her voice. "Keep going."

Marron stamped the rest of the cakes, her movements becoming more confident with each one. By the last cake, the pattern looked almost as good as Millie's.

Almost.

"You're a quick study," Millie said, sliding the baking sheet into her cart's small oven. The preservation runes glowed as they switched to heating mode. "Most people take a week to get the pressure right."

"I've been working with dough for years," Marron admitted. "Just... not like this. Not for beauty."

"Beauty isn't separate from the work," Millie said, leaning against her cart. "It's part of the work. You just have to decide it matters."

The cakes baked quickly—fifteen minutes, maybe less. When Millie pulled them out, they were golden-brown, the patterns pressed into their tops now visible as darker lines against the lighter dough. The smell was incredible: butter, caramel, a hint of salt.

Millie plated one on the same kind of ceramic dish she'd used the night before—white with a painted moon in the corner. Simple. Elegant.

"There," she said, presenting it to Marron. "Truth and beauty, braided together."

Marron looked at the cake. It was humble—just flour and butter and sugar and salt. Nothing fancy. Nothing that required rare ingredients or complex techniques.

But the pattern made it special. The plate made it feel considered. The care in every step made it matter.

"I think I understand now," Marron said softly.

"What do you understand?"

"Presentation isn't about making things fancy. It's about showing people that you thought about them. That you cared enough to make the experience match the taste."

Millie's ears perked forward, pleased. "Exactly. And now—" She pulled out another stool and sat down across from Marron. "—you teach me something. Tell me about your soup. The one that was too delicious to pass."

Marron opened her notebook to her mother's recipe. The page was stained with old broth splatters, the corners worn soft from years of handling.

"French onion soup," she said. "My mother's recipe. It takes four hours to make properly—most of that is just caramelizing the onions. You have to go slow, let them break down naturally, coax the sweetness out without burning them. Then you deglaze with wine, add stock, let it simmer for another hour. The bread has to be toasted just right—crispy but not hard. And the cheese..." She smiled despite herself. "The cheese has to melt into this perfect golden layer on top, slightly browned at the edges."

"It sounds labor-intensive," Millie observed.

"It is. That's the point." Marron traced the recipe with her finger. "Every step matters. Every hour of waiting. You can't rush it. The soup knows if you tried to take shortcuts."

"And how did you present it? At the evaluation?"

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