Gift

That evening, Richard took stock of the things in his desk drawer.

The Cicero Cup would be held after the family dinner, so he brought his materials for easy review.

He also packed a blank notebook, so he could write down anything worth recording in the Imperial Capital.

He zipped up his schoolbag, then took out the ancient silver coin that had already been drained dry and locked it in the drawer.

He brought the Grey-Stamen Grass as well, keeping it in an inner pocket for easy access.

He had silently rehearsed the steps of the Mist Wall Spell dozens of times already—snap, crush, blow. The three movements could be completed in a second.

He probably would not need it, but when going somewhere unfamiliar, carrying something to save his life was better than going empty-handed.

Once he was done packing, he turned off the desk lamp. A deep mechanical roar came from afar.

Tomorrow, he would be heading to the Imperial Capital.

He lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and performed a set of Quadruple Breathing.

The warmth the size of a copper button in the Seat of the Sun glowed steadily, gently rising and falling with every breath.

The panel floated in the corner of his consciousness.

[Breathing] Lv. 2 Experience: 281/500
[Scholarship] Lv. 2 Experience: 83/500

After the Breathing Technique broke through the First Milestone, ordinary breathing had almost no effect on increasing experience anymore.

Now, only daily Breathing Technique practice could noticeably raise his experience.

His original estimate that [Breathing] would reach the maximum for Lv. 2 within two months had indeed been overly optimistic.

After the [Scholarship] skill reached Lv. 2, the experience gained from self-study and regular tutoring had also dropped sharply.

He could vaguely sense that Lv. 3 skills were a threshold.

Perhaps this was the gap between the first rank, "Initiate," and the second rank, "Practitioner."

But right now, he had no resources related to Occultism at all.

Still, daily study and Breathing Technique practice cost him nothing and allowed him to improve steadily. There was not much to complain about.

The next morning, the entire family became busy.

His father started doing the math. "From Briston to the Imperial Capital, a one-way third-class ticket costs two shillings for adults, half price for children... No, wait. You two are both over fourteen now, so there are no child tickets."

He calculated again. "Four adult third-class tickets, one way, eight shillings. Round trip would be..."

Sixteen shillings. He held back a sigh in front of the children.

Sixteen shillings was enough to feed the family for a month, or buy Evelyn several pairs of new shoes.

And it was being spent on four train tickets, just to attend a family dinner in the Imperial Capital where they might not even get to eat properly.

"How much is first class?" his mother asked as she came downstairs, carrying freshly ironed clothes.

"First class?" His father looked up, his expression almost comical. "Are you serious?"

"I was only asking."

"More than a pound per person."

His mother said nothing more.

"Third class is fine." Richard came out of the kitchen holding a teacup. "As long as there are seats. It's not like we're going on vacation."

"Third class is crowded." Evelyn was crouched by the door changing her shoes, and she added the comment without looking up.

Two pairs of shoes lay before her.

On the left were the loafers she wore to school every day. The toes had been worn pale, though they were still fairly clean.

On the right were the little leather shoes she wore for formal occasions. Since she had only worn them a few times, they still looked new, but they were clearly too small.

She stuffed her foot into one and tried it on. Her toes pressed against the tip, making a bulge in the leather.

"Are they tight?" Richard asked, glancing down.

"Not tight." Evelyn shoved her foot in harder, stood up, and took two steps, but her expression gave her away.

Margaret came over and crouched down, pinching the toe of her daughter's shoe. "They are too small. Her toes are pressing right against the front."

Richard went into his room, took out a spare pair of thin cotton socks, and handed them over.

"Wear these underneath. They'll be more comfortable."

"Your feet are one size smaller than mine, so they'll fit perfectly underneath."

Evelyn stared at the socks. After hesitating for a moment, she accepted them and put the little leather shoes back on.

She stomped lightly on the floor and pushed her toes forward. "...A little better."

The family of four stood at the door putting on their shoes, and Richard took the chance to look over everyone's outfits.

His father's three-piece suit was respectable but tight, his mother's dress was elegant but old, and his sister's leather shoes were pretty but pinched her feet.

Everyone was playing the best cards they had in a battle none of them wanted to fight.

There were quite a few people on the platform: merchants carrying suitcases, housewives holding children, postmen in uniform, and several sailors with canvas duffel bags over their shoulders.

His father bought four tickets at the window, carefully counted the change twice, and only then tucked it into his pocket.

The family sat down on a bench in the waiting area and waited for the train.

The atmosphere was rather gloomy.

His father opened the newspaper he had brought with him, but his eyes barely moved over the pages. He was probably only looking for something to do.

His mother sat very straight, her hands folded on her lap as she stared at the empty tracks across the platform.

Evelyn sat beside Richard, her toes touching the ground while her heels hung in the air.

After a long silence, Richard nudged his sister's elbow.

The girl turned and saw him pull a paper-wrapped package from the side pocket of his schoolbag.

Richard handed the package to his mother.

"Mom."

Margaret looked away from the tracks, studying the thing in her son's hand in confusion.

"A birthday gift," Richard said. "It's a few days late, but I've been saving it for you."

Evelyn also took out another paper-wrapped package from her little shoulder bag. It was smaller and thicker than Richard's.

"Mom, happy birthday."

The girl placed her package beside Richard's in their mother's hands.

Margaret looked down at the two packages, her fingers holding the knot in the twine.

Her birthday had indeed been a few days ago.

That night, her old illness had flared up again, and her chest had felt terribly tight.

One coughing fit followed another, and she had coughed on and off from midnight until dawn.

Evelyn had gotten up in the middle of the night to bring her water, pat her back, and prop up her pillow. She had been busy for most of the night.

Richard had wanted to help, but his sister had pushed him back into his room. Even through the wall, he had barely slept.

Their father had not come home that day. The Factory had an urgent batch of orders to finish.

He had worked three night shifts in a row, eating and sleeping in a temporary dormitory beside the workshop.

No one mentioned the occasion on her birthday. The day simply passed.

"Open them already," Evelyn urged.

Their mother patted her daughter's head and opened Evelyn's gift first.

Layer by layer, the kraft paper came away, revealing a pair of dark brown wool gloves.

They were the pair displayed in the window of the Grafton Street department store branch—three shillings.

"Try them on." Evelyn took the gloves from the wrapping and gave them a shake.

Margaret took off her old gloves and put on the new pair. They fit perfectly.

She slowly clenched her fists. The fuzzy lining rested warmly and snugly against her palms.

"Do they fit?" Richard asked.

"They fit." His mother's voice was slightly hoarse.

Then she opened Richard's package.

Inside was a light gray wool scarf, finely knitted and soft to the touch.

The scarf had cost Richard one shilling and five pence. He had found it while browsing the secondhand market with Hugh.

The woman selling it had said she knitted it herself, using good yarn picked from surplus stock at a wool mill.

Richard had haggled the price down from two shillings to one shilling and five pence, using the same student routine as always.

Margaret wiped at her eyes and wrapped her arms around the children seated on either side of her. "Thank you."

His father set down the newspaper and suddenly said something completely unrelated to the moment.

"You can keep those two paper wrappers and use them to hold other things later."

His mother burst out laughing. "The moment you said that, the whole atmosphere disappeared."

"I don't understand that sort of thing."

"We all know you don't," Evelyn said, leaning against her mother. "Dad, how did you win Mom over back then?"

"She came to me herself."

"...Rogers, what are you talking about?" His mother's expression turned unfriendly.

But his father continued. "The first time I met your grandfather, I thought I had no chance."

"There was an old dog at their gate back then. It bit every stranger it saw."

"And then?" Evelyn leaned forward.

"Then Margaret stood there and watched me wrestle with that dog for more than ten minutes."

His mother took off the gloves, folded them neatly, and placed them back into the paper bag. She was reluctant to wear them.

"Your grandfather looked at your father like he was looking at an idiot."

She continued, "But I thought your father's foolhardy appearance was rather interesting."

"Oh?" Evelyn's gaze shifted back and forth between her parents.

His father stood up awkwardly and adjusted his coat collar. "Time to go, or we'll miss the train."

The family of four picked up their luggage and walked along the platform toward their carriage.

Inside the third-class carriage, all kinds of luggage were piled in the aisle, while the overhead racks were crammed with woven sacks and old leather suitcases.

The train soon began to move.

An elderly couple sat across from them, carrying a cage of chickens.

After kicking around inside the cage for half an hour, one of the chickens finally settled down and fell sound asleep somewhere between Briston and the Imperial Capital.

Richard opened the window a crack. The wind blew in the smell of coal smoke, but at least it was better than the smell of chicken droppings.

The wheels rolled over the gaps between the rails, making the whole carriage sway lightly.

The distant clusters of chimneys grew lower and lower, and the silhouette of the industrial district gave way to rolling hills.

Mines, iron furnaces, and tightly packed rows of houses gradually yielded to pasture fences, haystacks, and the occasional orchard.

The train passed through a small station without stopping. The platform was empty, with only a dog sitting on a bench and watching the train go by.

Richard took out Cicero's Speeches from his schoolbag and turned to the pages whose edges had grown fuzzy from repeated reading.

He did not read aloud. His eyes moved over the sentences while the rhythm and pauses of each passage replayed automatically in his mind.

About half an hour later, someone from the seat across from them got off the train, leaving a newspaper behind on the seat.

Richard's attention was drawn to the newspaper.