After the award ceremony, Mr. Holland hurried over from the audience.
He practically jogged across half the hall and clapped a hand onto his student’s shoulder.
"Richard."
"Sir."
The bald, middle-aged man looked like he wanted to say something complimentary, but he must have thought it too dramatic. In the end, all he could manage was:
"You’ve made all of us at Greenwood proud."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Don’t thank me. Thank yourself."
He gave Richard’s shoulder a firm pat.
"Keep studying hard when you get back, and don’t get cocky."
"Understood."
Mr. West came over. He didn’t say anything superfluous, simply offering his hand.
Richard shook it.
Nearby, Lady Gran sniffled and blew her nose.
She had probably been holding back tears since the end of the second round and couldn’t contain them any longer.
"Lady Gran, are you all right?" Mr. Holland asked, concerned.
"I’m fine." She stuffed the tissue into her pocket and raised her head.
Her eyes, red but shining behind her gold-rimmed glasses, looked up. "I just thought Richard’s speech was wonderful, that’s all."
Palmer and Hutchinson came over from a corner of the audience, still carrying the paper wrappers from the pies they’d just finished.
Palmer crumpled the wrapper into a ball, tossed it into a nearby trash can, and wiped the grease from his hands.
"Richard, be honest." He tilted his head, looking at Richard.
"Have you been holding back at school this whole time?"
"No."
"Then how’d you suddenly get so good at public speaking?"
"I had a high fever. It made me think a lot of things through." Richard offered his standard explanation.
"Well, I’ll be. Maybe I should try to catch a fever next flu season. Might give me a breakthrough, too."
Hutchinson slapped the back of Palmer’s head. "Even if your brain got fried, you still wouldn’t get any smarter."
"How would you know if you don’t try?"
"Because you’re third from the bottom."
"That means two people are worse than me!"
"...What’s there to be proud of about that?"
The two continued to bicker as they headed for the exit.
Palmer took a few steps, then turned back, his tone serious for once. "Richard, you heading back with us? I’ll buy you a kidney pie."
"No, thanks. I have a car coming for me."
"Moving up in the world, huh?" Palmer whistled. "Alright, then. Here’s to you staying on top."
Afterwards, the winning contestants were invited to an academic tea reception.
The reception was held in an adjoining drawing-room. The ceiling was considerably lower than in the main hall, but the decor was more refined.
Three long tables, draped in white cloths, were lined up against the south wall, laden with tea sets and refreshments.
Porcelain cups and saucers were stacked neatly, each with a small, silver-plated spoon beside it.
The pastries were served on three-tiered stands, in the style of the Imperial Capital.
The bottom tier held finger sandwiches, the middle tier had scones with cream and jam, and the top was lined with several rows of delicate little cakes.
’His sister’s eyes would light up if she saw this,’ Richard thought, feeling a momentary pang of regret on her behalf.
Contestants and judges mingled, walking about with their cups, exchanging business cards and polite conversation.
This sort of reception was likely as commonplace in academic circles as afternoon tea was in the factory districts. The only differences were the quality of the tea and the scholarly depth of the conversation.
Richard picked up a cup of black tea from the long table and headed for a corner by the window.
He wasn’t good at these sorts of occasions, nor did he particularly enjoy them.
’Standing in the crowd with a cup in hand, a polite smile plastered on my face, making a bit of meaningless small talk before looking for a chance to slip away... The whole routine is more exhausting than cracking a cipher.’
’At least ciphers follow rules. Social pleasantries don’t.’
He had just settled in the corner, preparing to finish his tea and leave.
"So you’re my sister’s son." A voice came from his left.
Richard turned. Isabella stood a few steps away, holding a white porcelain cup.
She had changed out of the dark blue suit she wore on the judges’ panel and was now in a long, knitted dress.
A delicate silver chain hung around her neck, its pendant hidden beneath her collar.
His aunt’s features were quite similar to his mother’s, but her aura was entirely different.
Even on her better days, his Mother had an air of frailty about her. She would press a hand to her chest when Walking, and her voice was so soft you had to lean in to hear it.
While Isabella’s facial contours were just as elegant, her eyes always seemed to be scrutinizing people.
She looked as if she were constantly waiting for you to say something out of line, just so she could correct you.
"...Aunt."
"Here, you will address me as Lady Ashford." She corrected him, though her tone wasn’t cold.
’In an academic setting, using familial titles could easily lead to speculation.’
Richard nodded.
Isabella pulled over a nearby chair and sat down beside him.
"Your speech in the second round was very interesting."
She held her cup, the steam rising from the tea swirling before her eyes.
"The water pipes in the walls... where did you hear that metaphor?"
"I read it in a book and added some of my own thoughts."
"Is that so."
Isabella brought the cup to her lips and took a sip.
"Paracelsus, in the third volume of *On the Nature of Things*, used an almost identical analogy."
Her gaze never left Richard’s face as she spoke.
"He spoke of ’mercury flowing through the bones of a house.’ You changed it to water pipes, a version more suited to the modern audience’s frame of reference. A clever adaptation."
Richard lowered the cup from his lips.
"I know the name Paracelsus, a pioneer of modern Alchemy, but I haven’t read the original work."
The term "infestation" had been coined by Paracelsus—his grandfather had mentioned it in his study before.
But he truly had never had the chance to read the original text.
"My father told me about you before the competition. It seems now that you really have a talent for this line of work."
Isabella stated with conviction:
"The speech you constructed in fifteen minutes—its logical structure, your choice of words, the layers of metaphor—it all far exceeded the level expected of someone with your age and educational background."
She picked her teacup up from the low table, then set it down again.
"You should be aware of your scoring breakdown for the second round. In rhetorical comprehension and depth of expression, you received perfect scores from most of the judges.
Montague only surpassed you in technical skill, and that gap can be closed with one to two years of specialized training."
"But what you showed in the second round..."
She tapped the surface of the low table lightly with her index finger.
"Montague and Catherine are both excellent. One is deeply knowledgeable, the other is brilliant and sharp.
But their speeches both operated within the conventional semantic range of the word ’civilization.’"
"You broke out of that. You elevated the discussion to another level.
You used a common, everyday image as a vessel to contain something far beyond the mundane."
"Only someone who has either read a great deal, or thought very deeply, or both, could accomplish such a thing."
When she finished, she took a business card from the handbag at her feet.

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