As evening fell, Richard opened the front door.
The smell of scorched cotton from the iron pressed against the fabric mingled with the scent of mothballs, drifting down from the upstairs bedroom.
He set down his schoolbag and went upstairs.
The master bedroom door was half open, and his mother stood beside the bed.
A complete outfit had been laid out across it: a dark gray three-piece suit, a white shirt, a tie, and a women's blazer.
The suit belonged to his father. It was made of finely patterned tweed, and a corner of the lining showed, its sheen soft.
The iron rested on a stone mat on the bedside table, steam still rising from it.
His mother was bent over, smoothing a crease in the jacket's lapel with her palm.
Tiny embroidered initials marked the corner, their stitching already faded.
His mother kept this suit packed away, taking it out only when they needed to visit her parents.
"Mom."
His mother looked up and drew her hand back from the collar.
"You're home? I've kept some soup and bread warm for you on the stove."
"Yeah."
Beside his mother's jacket lay a pair of gloves.
They were old, the fingertips worn thin, but they had been cleaned carefully.
"I've got your clothes and your sister's ready, too." His mother turned and opened the wardrobe, taking out two outfits.
Richard's consisted of a dark blue suit jacket and gray trousers, cut in a formal style.
He picked it up and held it against himself. The sleeves were about an inch too short.
"You've grown lately." His mother came over and squeezed his shoulder. "I'll let out the sleeve seams. There should be enough fabric."
She took a ruler and thread from the sewing basket and had Richard put on the jacket.
"Stand up straight."
Richard straightened, and his mother crouched to measure the sleeve.
Her movements were practiced. She held a pin between her lips, then took it out and fastened the fabric once she had the measurement.
"Mom."
"Hmm?"
"Is there anything I should watch out for over there?"
His mother's hand paused, and the pin went into the sleeve at a slight angle.
She used her thumb to straighten it before answering.
"Whatever your grandfather asks, just answer honestly. You don't need to say much, and don't look around."
She put in the last pin and stood, rubbing her knees.
"If Vincent talks 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, "Mm," then turned and hung the clothes in the wardrobe.
Downstairs, Evelyn and his father were talking. Richard couldn't make out what they were saying, but his father's voice was lower than usual.
All four members of the family were preparing for the same thing, though in different ways:
His father was preparing his dignity, his mother was preparing her armor, his sister was preparing her powers of observation, and he was preparing his mind.
In the days before the trip, Evelyn had grown quieter, too.
She no longer pressed Richard about what he did at night, or brought up theories involving "gangs" and "sugar daddies."
She had even cut down on her usual eye-rolling, and the two of them had fallen into a subtle sort of understanding.
On Saturday morning, Richard sat at the dining table, flipping through an ancient inscriptions reference book he'd borrowed from the library.
He'd deliberately picked a book with an innocent-looking cover, Collection of Western Continent Epigraphy. It was thicker than a brick, and when spread across the table, it covered most of a plate.
His mother came out of the kitchen carrying a plate and walked over to take a look.
"Richard, did you stay up late again last night?"
She had noticed the dark circles under her son's eyes.
Days of intense training followed by nights of studying had cut his sleep down to five or six hours.
Although the Breathing Technique's breakthrough past the First Milestone kept him from dozing off during the day, his face still gave him away to his mother.
Before he could answer, Evelyn peered out from the stairwell.
"He's reviewing Latin. The Cicero Cup is coming up."
The girl wore a nightdress, her braid half undone and draped over her shoulder.
With a hair ribbon clenched between her teeth, she spoke indistinctly.
But she had successfully changed the subject.
Margaret glanced at her daughter, then came over to help braid her hair.
When Margaret returned to the kitchen, Evelyn shuffled over to the table in her slippers and sat down.
"Don't read too much into it. I just didn't want to hear Mom nagging you."
She pulled a slice of bread from the basket and muttered as she spread marmalade over it.
"Make sure you get enough rest, too... If you work yourself sick and collapse in the Imperial Capital, it'll make the whole family look bad."
"I won't."
"You'd better not."
On Monday afternoon, Richard had his last tutoring session before leaving for the Imperial Capital. He and his family would be heading to the train station the next day.
Mr. Holland didn't make any more noise today.
He had moved a chair beside the lectern, less than two steps from where Richard stood.
"No more mock speeches today."
He set his teacup on the windowsill.
"Your pronunciation, understanding of rhetoric, and command of the stage are all where they need to be. I've taught you pretty much everything I can."
He took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it over. "This is what came out of that meeting I went to."
Richard took it and unfolded it.
The paper bore a handwritten list of names, each accompanied by a school and grade.
"These are some of the strongest contestants this year. I asked someone at the Classical Society to get it for me."
Mr. Holland wiped the corner of his mouth.
"They've all had private tutors since childhood, and they attend top schools in the Imperial Capital."
"Your fundamentals are good enough, but you're still at a disadvantage compared with those who've had an elite education from an early age."
He put his teacup back on the windowsill and turned to face Richard.
"But forty percent of the Cicero Cup score comes from stage presence and live delivery. Your state of mind when you step onto the stage—whether you're speaking from the heart or just reciting mechanically—can't be hidden."
He patted Richard on the shoulder.
"The judges won't care how well you've memorized your lines. They'll be watching to see whether you truly understand what Cicero was saying, and whether you can express it in your own way."
He returned to his chair and sat down.
"Let me tell you one last little story from history."
"When Cicero denounced Catiline, most of the people in the Roman Senate were his political enemies.
"He had no army or band of loyal killers to back him up. He relied on nothing but his own tongue, turning every word into a nail and driving them, one by one, into everyone's ears."
"Catiline eventually fled. He was driven out by the voice of an orator like that."
Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair.
"You'll be standing at the lectern in St. Augustine Chapel, with many noble children and renowned professors in the audience."
"Most of them won't believe a student from Briston can place."
"But I believe you can prove them wrong."
Richard folded the list and put it in his pocket. "I will."
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