Richard opened the front door as evening fell.
The smell of scorched cotton, mixed with that of mothballs, drifted down from an upstairs bedroom.
He set down his schoolbag and went upstairs.
The master bedroom door was ajar. His Mother was standing by the bed.
A complete set of clothes was laid out on the bed: a dark gray three-piece suit, a white shirt, a tie, and a woman’s blazer.
The three-piece suit was his father’s. It was made of fine-patterned tweed, and a corner of the lining, with its soft sheen, was visible.
The iron rested on a stone slate on the nightstand, still giving off heat.
His Mother was bent over, using the palm of her hand to press a crease out of the jacket’s lapel.
A tiny, faded monogram was embroidered on the corner.
His Mother kept this suit stored away, only bringing it out when they needed to visit her family.
"Mom."
His Mother looked up, pulling her hand away from the collar.
"You’re back? There’s soup and bread in the oven for you."
"Yeah."
A pair of gloves lay next to his Mother’s blazer.
The gloves were old and worn thin at the fingertips, but they had been wiped clean.
"I’ve gotten your and your sister’s clothes ready, too." His Mother turned, opened the wardrobe, and took out two outfits.
Richard’s outfit was a formal-cut, dark blue blazer paired with gray trousers.
He picked it up and held it against his body. The sleeves were about an inch too short.
"You’ve grown recently." His Mother came over and squeezed his shoulders.
"I’ll let out the hem on the cuffs. That should be enough."
She took a ruler and thread from her sewing basket and had Richard put on the jacket.
"Stand up straight."
Richard stood straight as his Mother knelt to measure the cuffs with a ruler.
Her movements were practiced. She held pins between her lips, taking one out to secure the fabric as soon as she had a measurement.
"Mom."
"Hm?"
"When we get there... is there anything I should watch out for?"
His Mother’s hands paused for a moment, and the pin she was pushing into the cuff went in slightly askew.
She straightened the pin with her thumb before answering.
"Whatever your grandfather asks, just answer truthfully. Don’t say more than you have to, and don’t let your eyes wander."
After securing the last pin, she stood and rubbed her knees.
"If Vincent tries to talk to you..." she hesitated, "just be polite."
Richard took off the jacket and handed it to his Mother, who draped it over her arm.
"Thanks, Mom."
His Mother murmured an acknowledgment and turned to hang the jacket in the wardrobe.
He heard Evelyn and his father talking downstairs. He couldn’t make out the words, but his father’s voice was lower than usual.
’The family of four were all preparing for the same event, just in different ways: His father was preparing his dignity, his mother her armor, his sister her wits, and he was preparing his mind.’
In the days they spent preparing for the trip, Evelyn had been much quieter.
She no longer pestered Richard about what he was doing at night, nor did she bring up her theories about "gangs" or him "being kept."
She was even rolling her eyes—her favorite pastime—less often. A subtle understanding seemed to have formed between her and Richard instead.
On Saturday morning, Richard was at the dining table, flipping through a reference book on ancient scripts he’d borrowed from the library.
He had deliberately chosen this one, the *Western Continent Inscription Collection*, because of its innocuous cover. It was thicker than a brick and, when laid open on the dining table, covered most of his plate.
His Mother came out of the kitchen carrying a plate and walked around to take a look.
"Richard, were you up late again last night?"
She’d noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
Between high-intensity training during the day and cramming at night, his sleep had been compressed to just five or six hours.
Although breaking through the first milestone in his Breathing Technique kept him from dozing off during the day, the physical toll was plain on his face, and his Mother saw it.
Before he could say anything, Evelyn peeked her head around the landing of the stairs.
"He’s studying Latin. The Cicero Cup is soon."
She was in her nightgown, her braid half-undone and spilling over her shoulder.
Her voice was muffled because she was holding a hair tie in her mouth.
But she had successfully deflected the conversation.
Margaret glanced at her daughter and went to help her with her braid.
Once their mother was back in the kitchen, Evelyn shuffled to the table in her slippers and sat down.
"Don’t get the wrong idea. I just didn’t want to hear Mom lecturing you."
She took a slice of bread from the basket, muttering under her breath as she spread marmalade on it.
"You need to get some rest... If you get sick from exhaustion and collapse in the Imperial Capital, you’ll be an embarrassment to the whole family."
"I won’t."
"You’d better not."
Monday afternoon was his final tutoring session before departing for the Imperial Capital. The next day, he and his family would head to the train station.
Today, Mr. Holland wasn’t making a racket.
He had moved a chair to the side of the lectern, placing it less than two steps from where Richard stood.
"No more practice runs today."
He set his teacup on the windowsill.
"Your pronunciation, your grasp of rhetoric, your stage presence... it’s all solid. I’ve pretty much taught you everything I can."
He took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it over. "The results from my last meeting."
Richard took it and unfolded it.
It was a handwritten list of names, each with a school and grade level written beside it.
"These are some of this year’s top contenders. I had a contact at the Classical Society get the list for me."
Mr. Holland wiped his mouth.
"They’ve all had private tutors since childhood and attend the top academies in the Imperial Capital."
"Your fundamentals are solid, but compared to those kids in the Imperial Capital who’ve had an elite education since birth, there’s still a foundational gap."
He put the teacup back on the windowsill and turned to face Richard.
"But forty percent of the score for the Cicero Cup is for stage presence and delivery. The moment you get on that stage, they’ll know whether you’re speaking from the heart or just mechanically reciting. You can’t hide it."
He clapped Richard’s shoulder.
"The judges won’t care how well you’ve memorized the words. They’ll be watching to see if you actually understand what Cicero was saying, and if you can then communicate that in your own way."
He walked back to his chair and sat down.
"Let me end by telling you a little story from history."
"You know, when Cicero delivered that tirade against Catiline, most of the men in the Senate were his political enemies.
He had no army, no die-hard followers to back him up. All he had was his voice, and he turned every word into a Nail, hammering them one by one into the ears of every man there."
"Catiline fled in the end. He was driven out by the voice of a true orator."
Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair.
"You’ll be standing on the stage in Saint Augustine’s Chapel, and the audience will be filled with the children of nobility and famous professors."
"Most of them won’t believe a student from Brighton has a shot at placing."
"But I think you can prove them wrong."
Richard folded the list and put it in his pocket. "I will."

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