Chapter 37: Tongue as a Sword

Richard pushed open the front door at dusk.

The smell of scorched cotton from a hot iron mixed with the scent of mothballs, drifting down from the upstairs bedrooms.

He set down his schoolbag and headed upstairs.

The master bedroom door stood ajar. His mother was standing by the bed.

Clothes were laid out across the mattress: a dark gray three-piece suit, a white shirt, a tie, and a women's suit jacket.

The three-piece suit belonged to his father. It was made of fine tweed, and a corner of its lining peeked out with a soft sheen.

The iron rested on the Stone Tablet serving as a mat on the nightstand, heat still radiating from it.

His mother leaned over, smoothing out a crease on the jacket's lapel with her palm.

Tiny initials were embroidered on the corner, their threads faded with time.

She always kept this outfit buried at the bottom of a trunk, only digging it out when they needed to visit her side of the family.

"Mom."

His mother looked up, pulling her hand back from the collar.

"You're back? There's soup and bread warming on the stove for you."

"Yeah."

A pair of gloves rested beside her jacket.

They were old, the material worn thin at the fingertips, but they had been scrubbed perfectly clean.

"I've already prepared your and your sister's clothes, too." She turned, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out two outfits.

Richard's was a dark blue blazer paired with gray trousers, the cut leaning toward formal.

He held the blazer against himself. The sleeves were about an inch too short.

"You've grown." His mother walked over and squeezed his shoulder.

"I can let the cuffs out a bit. There should be enough fabric."

She took a measuring tape and thread from her sewing basket, then had Richard put the blazer on.

"Stand straight."

Richard straightened up as she crouched down to measure the cuffs.

Her movements were practiced. She held sewing pins between her lips, pulling them out one by one to pin the fabric in place once she finished measuring.

"Mom."

"Hmm?"

"When we get there... is there anything I should be careful about?"

His mother's hands paused, and the pin went into the cuff fabric at a slight angle.

She nudged the pin straight with her thumb before speaking.

"Whatever your grandfather asks, just answer truthfully. Don't say more than you need to, and don't let your eyes wander."

She pushed the last pin into place and stood, rubbing her knees.

"If Vincent speaks to you..." She hesitated for a moment. "Just be polite."

Richard slipped the blazer off and handed it to his mother. She took it, draping it over her arm.

"Thanks, Mom."

She hummed softly, turning to hang the blazer in the wardrobe.

The muffled sound of Evelyn and his father talking drifted up from downstairs. He couldn't make out the words, but his father's voice was pitched lower than usual.

All four family members were preparing for the same event, just in completely different ways:

His father was preparing his dignity, his mother was preparing her armor, his sister was preparing her eyes, and Richard was preparing his mind.

Over the last few days of preparation, Evelyn had also quieted down considerably.

She stopped pestering Richard about what he was doing at night, and she dropped her theories about gangs and being kept.

She even rolled her eyes less frequently, forming a subtle, unspoken understanding with him instead.

On Saturday morning, Richard sat at the dining table, flipping through a reference book on ancient texts he had borrowed from the library.

He had deliberately chosen this one. Titled Compilation of Epigraphy of the Western Continent, it had a normal cover, was thicker than a brick, and, when spread open, could hide most of his plate.

His mother came out of the kitchen carrying a plate and stepped around the table to take a look.

"Richard, did you stay up late again last night?"

She had spotted the dark circles under his eyes.

Between intense physical training during the day and hard study at night, his sleep schedule had been squeezed down to just five or six hours.

Although reaching the first milestone in his breathing method kept him from dozing off during the day, the physical toll couldn't deceive his mother's eyes.

Before he could answer, Evelyn poked her head out from around the staircase corner.

"He's just reviewing his Latin. The Cicero Cup is coming up."

She was wearing her nightgown, her half-undone braids draped over her shoulders.

Because she had a hair tie clamped between her teeth, her words came out muffled.

But she successfully changed the subject.

Margaret glanced at her daughter, then stepped over to help tie her braids.

Once Margaret was back in the kitchen, Evelyn shuffled over in her slippers and sat down at the table.

"Don't overthink it. I just didn't want to listen to Mom nag you."

She grabbed a slice from the bread basket, spreading marmalade over it as she grumbled under her breath.

"You still need to get some rest... If you work yourself sick and collapse in the Imperial Capital, you'll embarrass the whole family."

"I won't."

"You'd better not."

...

Monday afternoon was the final tutoring session before leaving for the Imperial Capital. Tomorrow, he and his family would head to the train station.

Mr. Holland did not make any more noise today.

He moved a chair to the side of the podium, less than two steps away from where Richard stood.

"No mock speeches today."

He set his teacup down on the windowsill.

"Your pronunciation, rhetorical comprehension, and stage presence are all on point. I've basically taught you everything I can."

He took a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it over. "The results of that last meeting."

Richard took the paper and unfolded it.

It was a handwritten list of names, each accompanied by a school and a grade level.

"These are some of the stronger competitors this year. I asked someone to get this from the Classical Society."

Mr. Holland wiped the corner of his mouth.

"They've all had one-on-one private tutors since childhood, and they attend the top public schools in the Imperial Capital."

"Your baseline is solid now, but compared to those in the Imperial Capital who have received an elite education since childhood, there is still a gap in your foundations."

He placed his teacup back on the windowsill and turned to face Richard.

"But forty percent of the Cicero Cup score lies in stage presence and live expression. Your state the moment you step onto the stage—whether it comes from the heart or is mechanical memorization—cannot be hidden."

He patted Richard on the shoulder.

"The judges won't look at how well you've memorized it. They look to see if, on that stage, you truly understand what Cicero was saying, and can then recount it in your own way."

He walked back to his chair and sat down.

"Finally, let me tell you a little story from history."

"Actually, when Cicero fiercely condemned Catiline back then, most of the people in the Senate were his political enemies.

He had no army or loyal assassins to help him. He relied solely on his own mouth, turning every word into a nail and driving them into everyone's ears, one by one."

"Catiline ultimately fled. He was driven out by the voice of such an orator."

Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair.

"When you stand on that podium in St. Augustine Chapel, many of the people sitting in the audience will be the children of nobles and renowned professors."

"Most of them won't think a student from Briston can place."

"But I believe you can prove them wrong."

Richard folded the list up and tucked it into his pocket. "I will."