Author's Note: Hey readers! Happy New Year! I hope you all had a good holiday. I'm starting school again tomorrow (wah!), which means I won't have much time to update anymore. To make up for it though, I'm posting TWO chapters today, which I hope you'll like.

Chapter 7: Thinking Rebellion vs. Speaking Rebellion

It was a Wednesday afternoon, which meant that Wendy was spending her time after school with Aunt Millicent. Their lessons together were quite strict when they first started out. Every Saturday and Wednesday, Wendy would receive austere instruction at her aunt's house, learning proper speech, posture, dress, table etiquette, and anything and everything else a lady was expected to know and practice. Nowadays, however, Wendy's hourly sessions with Aunt Millicent were much looser, often consisting of an outing to the local tea house, where Wendy was obliged to sit through the conversations between Aunt Millicent and her gossipy friends. The busybody aunt claimed that these outings were important parts of Wendy's lessons. Accordingly, she had insisted that they would teach Wendy to socialize with other proper women, but it was clear to Wendy that their "lessons" at the tea house simply served as a time for Aunt Millicent to catch up on all the town's gossip, rumors, and scandals. It seemed that today was no exception.

"Wendy?"

The jaded teenager, who had been staring blankly through the window at the throngs of people walking down the street, suddenly turned to the three other women at the table when she heard her name.

"Yes?" she uttered politely, unsure of who might have called her name. She glazed quick glances upon Aunt Millicent and her two stately-looking friends, who were watching her closely.

"Wendy, answer Beatrice's question," Aunt Millicent ordered.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Wendy apologized to the plump woman sitting across from her.

"That's quite alright," Beatrice answered with a chuckle. "I was simply asking how school has been." She took a sip of tea, looking at Wendy over the rim of her porcelain cup.

"It has been going well," Wendy answered almost mechanically. "I enjoy it very much."

"Do you?" Beatrice asked with a smile. "What is it you enjoy doing most?"

"Well, I do enjoy writing," Wendy explained, keeping Aunt Millicent cautiously in mind, "although I did finish the course last year."

Beatrice nodded her head, shifting her eyes slightly.

"Is that what you want to do when you're older, then?" the woman next to Wendy asked. There was a combination of amusement and disapproval in her voice.

Before Wendy could answer, Aunt Millicent let out an uneasy laugh.

"Wendy—a novelist?" she proclaimed, still laughing. "Of course not, Rose!"

The woman next to Wendy rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders at Aunt Millicent before curtly raising her teacup to her pursed lips.

Wendy stared down at the tea leaves floating at the bottom of her own teacup and bit her tongue. She wished terribly that she could stand up to Aunt Millicent at that instant and tell her for a fact that she was going to become a novelist. It had been Wendy's dream for several years, but, greatly for Aunt Millicent's sake, one that she had buried under her growing adulthood. How did it come that Aunt Millicent was the ruler of Wendy's life, anyway? Must Wendy always follow all that her aunt said? And if she didn't, what was the worst anyone could do to her?

To any thoughtless outsider looking in at the women at the table, Wendy certainly looked attentive towards the conversation that continued on between Aunt Millicent and her friends. But a precise observer would have seen that Wendy was only robotically watching the mouths of the women chatter on incessantly, and that a rather mischievous little smile appeared on her face—a kind of smile that surely could not have been generated by the conversation at the table. The truth of it was that Wendy was smiling at the thought of rebellion. It would have been nothing for Aunt Millicent to feel threatened about (for it was merely a thought, and an obedient character such as Wendy would hardly act upon it), but, nonetheless, it seemed to amuse Wendy for the moment.

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William slumped down groggily in his chair at the dining table, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Like always, he was the last to join his family at the table for dinner.

"I surely hope you were doing your homework and not sleeping just now," Mrs. Locke told William from one end of the table as she smoothed out her napkin over her lap.

"Of course I was doing my homework," William insisted as he fiddled with the silver fork next to his plate. "It's just that I have so much of it, it's made me sleepy."

"What's for dinner?" Nicholas piped in from his seat across the table, where he was moving about restlessly in his chair. "I'm hungry."

"Sit still now, Nicholas," Mrs. Locke ordered gently. "Dinner is coming in a moment."

As if in response to Mrs. Locke, a side door leading to the kitchen swung open, and several servants came through, each holding silver platters of food. Nicholas sat up in his seat and licked his lips as he watched the chicken, stew, and potatoes being set down before him.

"William, how was school?" asked Mr. Locke, who had otherwise been sitting noiselessly at the head table.

William took his eyes off the plate he was filling with food and looked at his father with a hint of confusion on his face. Mr. Locke rarely initiated a conversation with his sons at the dinner table. In fact, there were even days when he didn't speak a single word to William or Nicholas. And it certainly was not because he was an unloving father (he was far from it), but because he was always caught up in his own one-track mind. So when he asked this question, William suddenly felt an unexplainable tension at the table.

"It was…good," William answered after a moment. "I think I did well on the math exam I had today."

"Good, good," Mr. Locke replied, nodding his head and furrowing his eyebrows as if he were deep in thought.

A long and awkward silence followed, and William eyed his parents at either end of the table suspiciously. Mrs. Locke cleared her throat a few times to try and break the uncomfortable mute spell, but it was Nicholas who finally relieved some of the tension.

"Mother, may I have dessert?" he asked, wiping his greasy mouth with the back of his hand.

"No, dear," Mrs. Locke said, cocking her head to the side and smiling gently at Nicholas. "You haven't touched your potatoes yet. Once you finish your dinner, you may have dessert…And please use your napkin to wipe your mouth."

Nicholas frowned at his mother's words, but went to eating the heap of potatoes on his plate.

Before another discomfited silence could arise, Mr. Locke let out a deep sigh and set down his utensils at the edge of his plate. At this point, William knew his father was about to let out a few heavy words.

"Your mother and I have been planning a dinner with Sir Edward Quiller Couch and his family," he informed William, who discovered what was coming as soon as his father said these words. "We think it would be proper for you to become better acquainted with them at this time."

"Jacqueline…," William mumbled, poking at the half-eaten chicken breast on his plate.

"Jacqueline Couch would be a suitable young lady, William," Mr. Locke claimed. "Her father is the president of the bank, and you would indeed be well-off together."

William continued staring down at his plate and prodding at his food, becoming further dissatisfied the more he thought about the spoiled Couch daughter. He remembered meeting her once or twice at parties and, unlike many other boys, was unimpressed. He despised the way she flaunted her fancy dresses and excessive jewelry, and the way she walked with her nose high in the air. To think of Jacqueline as a wife nearly gave William chills down the spine.

"And she is such a pleasant girl," Mrs. Locke tried to assure William, seeing his lack of enthusiasm. "You remember meeting her several times at some of the gatherings, don't you? She is beautiful, and certainly well-mannered."

"Not to mention her idiocy and an ego she can barely fit through the doorway," William added, looking to his mother with disgust.

"Oh come off it, boy," Mr. Locke stated almost humorously. "Her ego can't be any bigger than your own."

"William," Mrs. Locke said, disregarding her husband's side-remark, "many suitors could only dream of making Jacqueline Couch their bride."

William darted his eyes up at Mrs. Locke, dropping the fork he'd been gripping onto his plate with a loud clank.

"Bride?" he let out, sitting up in his seat. "Bride? Who ever said anything about a bride?"

"William, at your age you know perfectly well that marriage is apt at this time," Mrs. Locke tried to explain calmly. "You've grown into a fine young man, and you're nearly ready to be a husband."

William looked back down at his plate, shaking his head in denial.

No. He wasn't grown up yet. He wasn't ready to be a husband. It was much too fast. Much too fast.

"How could this happen?" William suddenly demanded, looking from his father to his mother with frustration. "I've never recalled you speaking of marriage, and to spring this on me so suddenly isn't right."

"We know what is best for you, William," Mrs. Locke replied with a steady voice. "And I understand you must be a bit nervous, but it's nothing to be afraid of or to try and avoid. It's all for the best."

"It's not about being afraid!" William's voice echoed off the walls in the room. "I'm…I'm not afraid. But if you insist on doing this to me, why couldn't you have given me a say in the girl I am to spend the rest of my life with?"

"Your father and I had an arranged marriage," Mrs. Locke responded unflinchingly, "and I certainly could not have asked for a better life."

"Well I'm not Father," William shot back through heavy breaths, "and Jacqueline is not you!"

"William," Mr. Locke pitched in unexpectedly with a commanding voice, "I would suggest you cease taking that tone with your mother. And whether you like it or not, you will join us for dinner with the Couchs."

"And what if I don't?" William looked his father dead in the eye.

"Impossible," Mr. Locke answered, coolly sweeping some potatoes from his plate onto his fork. "As long as I'm your father and you're living under my roof, you will follow my rules and do as I say." He took the potatoes into his mouth and continued eating as if everything was normal.

That made William furious as ever.

"Well sometimes your rules are just asking to be rebelled against!" William responded angrily, forcefully pushing his plate away from him. His chest was heaving up and down heavily, and his face was red with fury.

A long moment of silence followed. William glanced across the table at Nicholas and suddenly became very aware of him. Nicholas had never seen his older brother so angry before, and it was clear that he was taken aback. William peeled his eyes shamefully away from his little brother, immediately feeling guilty for acting in such a way in front of him. He threw his chair back and finally disappeared from the room, leaving the rest of his family at the table with a feeling of misery hanging in the air.

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"How were your lessons with Aunt Millicent today?" Mrs. Darling asked her daughter from across the dinner table.

"Oh it was torturous!" Curly answered comically over his dinner plate, speaking in a high-pitched voice that was a sorry attempt to imitate a girl's voice. "First, she made me practice fixing my hair, and then she made me practice eating with my mouth closed, and then she made me try on these horrid corsets and dresses!"

Wendy and her brothers laughed along with Curly, who was chuckling with amusement at his own joke.

"Quiet down," Mr. Darling told his children from the head of the table. "Curly, we don't need such remarks from you."

"Curly and the other boys simmered down, but leaned over their plates, still giggling and eyeing each other drolly.

"Lessons were fine," Wendy finally answered her mother, still smiling at Curly's words. "We went to the tea house again."

"How nice," Mrs. Darling replied pleasantly as she reached over the table to fix Michael another serving of food. Wendy noticed that she was eyeing Mr. Darling, and knew that something wasn't quite right.

"Wendy," Mr. Darling finally addressed his daughter, clearing his throat and setting his utensils down. "We know how much work you've put into school and your lessons with Aunt Millicent, and your mother and I think you should be rewarded for this."

"Why…thank you," Wendy answered somewhat hesitantly. "How so?"

"Well," Mr. Darling went on, "we know how much you've always wanted to see the opera, and since Giacomo Puccini is here in London…" His voice trailed off when he saw by her lighted eyes that Wendy was catching on.

"Oh, Madame Butterfly!" Wendy exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Are we going to see it?"

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Darling answered with a wide smile. "You will join your father and me at the Royal Opera House next Friday evening."

"Oh, it's more than I could have asked for!" Wendy cried out as she jumped up to hug her mother. She was quite caught up in her excitement. "Thank you, Mother! And Father!" She rushed over to the other end of the table to hug Mr. Darling.

"What about us?" Nibs asked as he and the boys watched Wendy hop up and down in elation. "Do we get a reward as well?"

"Don't you worry," Mrs. Darling assured her boys. "You too will all be rewarded when you get older."

Wendy sat back down and returned to her dinner, still with an aura of thrill around her. She felt like the luckiest girl in all of London, for it wasn't often that her family went to any "high society" gatherings. The opera was undoubtedly the social outing for the wealthy, and next Friday evening, Wendy would be seen among this privileged crowd. And not only that, she would be watching one of the most praised operas by one of the most praised composers. An opportunity that she never once thought would come was being given to her, and she felt like she was floating on a cloud that night.