Tongue as a Sword

At dusk, Richard pushed open the front door.

The scent of scorched cotton from a hot iron pressing against fabric, mixed with the smell of mothballs, drifted down from the bedroom upstairs.

He set down his schoolbag and went up the stairs.

The master bedroom door was half-open, and his mother was standing by the bed.

Spread out on the bed was a complete set of clothes: a dark gray three-piece suit, a white shirt, a tie, and a small women's blazer.

The three-piece suit was his father's, made of fine-patterned tweed, with a corner of the lining peeking out, its sheen soft and muted.

The iron rested on a stone pad on the nightstand, steam still rising from it.

His mother was bent over, using her palm to press flat a crease on the jacket's lapel.

Tiny initials were embroidered on the corner, the stitching already faded.

His mother kept this suit at the bottom of her trunk, only bringing it out when they needed to visit her family home.

"Mom."

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

"You're back? There's soup and bread keeping warm for you in the stove."

"Yeah."

Beside his mother's jacket lay a pair of gloves.

The gloves were old, the fingertips worn thin, but they had been wiped clean.

"I've also prepared the clothes for you and your sister." His mother turned to open the wardrobe and took out two sets.

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

He picked them up and held them against his body; the sleeves were about an inch too short.

"You've grown taller recently." His mother walked over and squeezed his shoulders.

"I'll let out the seam allowance; it should be enough."

She took a ruler and thread from her sewing basket and had Richard put on the jacket.

"Stand straight."

Richard stood tall, and his mother knelt to measure the position of the cuffs with the ruler.

Her movements were practiced; she held a pin between her lips, taking it out to secure the fabric once she had measured.

"Mom."

"Hmm?"

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

His mother's hands paused, and the angle at which the pin pierced the cuff fabric shifted slightly.

She used her thumb to straighten the pin before speaking.

"Whatever your grandfather asks you, just answer truthfully. Don't say more than necessary, and don't look around."

She pinned the last needle in place and stood up, rubbing her knees.

"If Vincent speaks to you..." She hesitated for a moment. "Just respond politely."

Richard took off the jacket and handed it to his mother, who took it and draped it over her arm.

"Thanks, Mom."

His mother gave a soft "mm" and turned to hang the clothes in the wardrobe.

Downstairs, the voices of Evelyn and his father drifted up; the content was unclear, but his father's tone was lower than usual.

The family of four was preparing for the same event, though the direction of their preparations differed:

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

During the days of preparation, Evelyn had also become much quieter.

She no longer pestered Richard about what he was doing at night, nor did she bring up her theories about "gangs" or "being kept."

Even the eye-rolling she loved so much had decreased in frequency, and instead, a subtle, unspoken understanding had formed between her and Richard.

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

He had deliberately chosen this book, the Collection of Western Continent Epigraphy, which had a normal cover but was thicker than a brick; when spread open on the table, it could cover most of his plate.

His mother came out of the kitchen carrying a tray and walked around to take a look.

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

She saw the dark circles under her son's eyes.

Between the high-intensity daytime training and his nightly studies, his sleep had been compressed to five or six hours.

Although his breakthrough in the Breathing Technique after the first milestone kept him from dozing off during the day, his facial features could not deceive his mother's eyes.

Before he could speak, Evelyn poked her head around the corner of the stairs.

"He's reviewing Latin; the Cicero Cup is coming up soon."

The girl was wearing a nightgown, her braid half-undone and draped over her shoulder.

Because she was holding a hair tie in her mouth, her voice sounded muffled.

But she had successfully diverted the topic.

Margaret glanced at her daughter and stepped forward to help her tie her braid.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, Evelyn shuffled over in her slippers and sat down at the dining table.

"Don't overthink it, I just didn't want to hear Mom nagging you."

She pulled a slice from the bread basket and muttered under her breath while spreading marmalade on it:

"You need to get some rest too... if you get sick and collapse in the Imperial Capital, it'll be a disgrace to 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 would be heading to the train station with his family.

Mr. Holland did not make any noise today.

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

"No mock trials today."

He set his teacup on the windowsill.

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

He took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it over: "The result of the meeting I attended last time."

Richard took it and unfolded it.

On the paper was a handwritten list containing several names, each marked with their respective school and grade.

"These are some of the more formidable contestants this year; I had someone get this from the Classical Society."

Mr. Holland wiped the corner of his mouth:

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

"Your foundational level is sufficient, but compared to those in the Imperial Capital who have received elite education since they were young, there is still a gap in your background."

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

"But forty percent of the Cicero Cup score lies in stage presence and live delivery; the state you're in the moment you step onto the stage—whether it's genuine or just mechanical recitation—cannot be hidden."

He patted Richard on the shoulder:

"The judges won't look at how well you've memorized it; they look at whether you truly understand what Cicero was saying on stage, and then tell it in your own way."

He walked back to his chair and sat down:

"Let me tell you a little story from history for the last lesson."

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

"He didn't have any army or loyalists to help him either; he relied solely on his own mouth, turning every word into a nail and hammering them into everyone's ears, one by one."

"Catiline eventually fled; he was driven out by the voice of such an orator."

Mr. Holland leaned his chair back:

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

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

"But I think you can prove them wrong."

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