"Girls in sports," was the first thing Amelia encountered at the breakfast table followed by a, "what's next? Girls join the front lines." Arthur's eyes scanned the bolded headlines before tossing the paper to the middle of the table. She could have argued that plenty of women have fought in wars. Stories prove that feminine heroism in fact was not a myth or legend, but an integral part of humanity.

John reached over to grab it, his finger following each word. When nothing piqued his interest, he turned to Amelia. With a toothy grin, he posed a question, "would you fight in a war if you had to?"

She paused in thought before she reached for her tea cup. With a little unsure nod, she responded, "if I had to. I don't think many women would say no. We love our countries and families just as much-"

Arthur sighed, dismissing her words with a wave. "No woman has ever-"

"Joan of Arc," she interjected, a small grin playing on her lips.

He scoffed. As he lit his cigarette and took one big puff, history lessons replayed in his head. Finally decided, he said, "not a real person."

Polly, who had been listening rather intently, snorted as she took a sip of her morning tea. "In fact, she was, Arthur. Very real and a Saint. Jeanne d'Arc. Not only a saint, but a martyr."

"And," Amelia continued, "if women were always viewed as frail and weak, why did the Greeks make Athena the goddess of war and wisdom, Mr. Shelby? Your logic is flawed and unfounded. Furthermore, Queen Elizabeth I would hardly be regarded as one of England's best!" With that, she dunked a sugar cube in her tea.

John nodded, pleased with that stance, humored, "Guess we know who's fighting the Germans in the next round!"

"But there can't be a round two," Amelia countered, "it was the war to end all wars, was it not?"

"There is no such thing as a war to end all wars," Tommy Shelby said, hanging on the door frame. Everyone turned to look at him, greeting him with 'morning' and 'Hi, Tom'. "If there were," he continued, pushing off the frame and walking to the table to take a seat, "we would have fought it long ago. Now, finish your eggs. You have training in…," he paused, checking his pocket watch, "in 45 minutes. Takes 30 to drive there."

"And who's taking me?" she asked, looking over the men, praying it was not the eldest brother.

John smiled, the keys in his palm. She helped her host family clear the table, and skipped out to John's dowry gifted car.

In the car, he looked over at her, and asked "do you wish you could wear trousers?"

She shrugged, "guess I never thought about it...sometimes it is hard to run when no skirt ever fits properly on me." Most girls were able to wear a skirt about 12 inches up from their ankles, but at 155 centimeters, they often landed at the tops of her shoes. Her mother was no good at hemming pleats. By the third one she ruined, she insisted her daughter get used to it because I'm not paying for a seamstress, and I refuse to buy another skirt.

"Bet that is your war, Amelia," he nodded, picking his teeth with a toothpick, "trousers for women! On a campaign board! Amelia d'Trousers!" She tilted her head, brow raised. He laughed, "Jeanne d'Arc."

John was kinder than his eldest brothers and most certainly easier to talk to. The ride to the court was an easy one. He talked a lot about his wife, kids, and dog. Confusingly, more about his dog compared to wife and kids. Like how he still manages to steal tea biscuits from the cupboard no matter how high he puts them up.

She shook her head, sighing, "Mr. Shelby-"

"I'm not that old, Amelia," he corrected, "John is fine. My arse isn't as hard as Tommy's."

"Sorry, John," she agreed, "do you think perhaps one of your children are getting the biscuits? Hardly believe a spaniel is jumping on the stove and grabbing them-"

"Oh? Do you think so?" he asked, nodding, "wouldn't doubt it. Up all night, doin' my fo'kin head in, ya' know?" With that, he parked, and he nodded to a gentleman waiting near the entrance. "Your coach," he explained, nodding, shoving on his flat cap, "he's never trained a bird, I guess." They walked slowly so John could finish his thought. "Tommy spoke to 'em on the phone just the other day before you popped up. He was a bit edgy about a girl on his court, so you shouldn't fool-"

"Correction, John," she stopped him, "if there is one thing Amelia Clarke does not fuck up, it's tennis!"

"Language," he grinned, tapping her to move along.

The tall, lanky man just about Arthur's age stood straight and went in to shake John Shelby's hand. However, he paid little attention to Amelia. "She's late."

John humored the man, "we usually say good morning, but alright." He looked at his pocket watch that was never late or early. The time read exactly 7:59 am. "She's half a minute early-"

"I go by that clock," he said, eyes drinking to the large clock hanging on the stadium's entrance. "And that clock says a minute has passed."

John replaced his tooth pick with a cigarette, "it'll be nine before you get your head out of your fo'kin arse. We're here. If you have an issue, you can call, Mr. Shelby. I'm just the man who drives the car.

He nodded, and looked over Amelia, and snorted, "her legs are short-"

"I'm 155 cm!"

"And the qualifying height for the match in Manchester next month is 164!"

John already decided he did not like this coach and made it a point to call Tommy sometime during the day at the payphone resting against the entrance building. "Listen, coach, just take her in there, alright? Do your job for I can go do mine, yes?" He sighed, unlocking the latch to the court. John nodded to Amelia, "I'm going to be here, alright? Brought some work with me. If you need me, I'm here. Alright?" Affectionately, he squeezed her shoulder before tapping her to hurry along.

Amelia was not lying when she said that the only thing she didn't mess up was tennis because Amelia messed up a lot of things. The list was as long as…as…well, as anything that was long. Such examples are, consistently breaking her mother's porcelain, ruining her school dresses from jumping over fences, scaring away possible suitors, and causing traffic jams in lower Boston because she refused to use any crosswalk. If it was not the court, chaos was promised to follow. She grabbed her racket and water canteen before hopping on the court. Before anything, she stretched.

"Today," the coach started, throwing her a green ball, "we're working on your serve."

She rolled her eyes, "I know how to serve, I been playing for 8 years."

"First rule," he said, "change your attitude, or you're off the court. Now, serve."

"Yes, coach," she sighed, and stood in the serving position. One leg slightly behind her and her arm outreached. With one swift toss, she jumped and slammed it over the net as she jumped to meet the ball in the air. Pleased with herself, she grinned, and bowed.

Her coach on the other hand was less than impressed, "arrogance doesn't win you medals, Clarke. Your serve is wrong-"

"I always serve like that-"

"Then you've been doing it wrong, look," he said, jogging over, "come here." He turned her body slightly right. "This is a better angle. Outreach like this, Amelia, and." Amelia tensed as his hands went to her hips, "move your legs a bit like so…stop tensing, here." Lightly, he massaged at her hips. "That is how you strain your core, now your legs." Casually he reached down and moved her right leg by her thigh. John looked up from his writing, and tilted his head, eyes narrowed. Amelia was looking quite flushed and embarrassed. "Now, you don't jump, you lift your body by your thighs. Your heel is lifted, but your toes stay on the ground. Stay like this." He looked over at John, and nodded, before turning to Amelia, "good." When he jogged to the other side, Amelia served.

"Shit!" She cursed when the ball did not go in her target direction, but instead hit the net. "I never hit the net!"

"Temper," he warned, "try again."

It took Amelia a few times to get used to the proper serving technique, but when she did, the coach was left impressed, actually enjoying a game with her. John, from the stands, watched, taking notes of everything he heard the coach say. John didn't know a lick of tennis, but even he could understand her technique and skill. He slipped away to the pay phone and called Tommy, "I only got two minutes-"

"I gave you-"

"I know what you gave me, Tommy," he said, "I bought some tobacco and wrappers. Tommy, her da' wasn't lyin', ya' know? The lass is fo'kin good. Serve was kind of off, I guess, and he said something about her height. But she's good. They're playin', her and the coach, who is a fo'kin right arse, I tell you. Ya' know, he gave me some shit about being late? Fo'kin hell, if she weren't-"

"Johnny," Tommy interrupted, "I don't care about your feelings."

"Sorry," he said, "but I think you should come watch her tomorrow. They're playin' against each other and ya know, I think I seen 'em sweat and nearly piss 'emself."

When it was time to go, the coach jogged over to John. "How old is she?"

"A little too young for you, why?" he retorted.

The coach sighed, "cause I can train her for the match in Manchester, but honestly, you got me here. The girl is good. After Manchester, she's better off with another coach. One that can sign her up for the older sector. No wonder why she's winning, she's playing junior players that play at a junior level."

"Alright," John nodded, not comprehending any of it. "Shouldn't she be good and win?"

"She should play other junior players that compete at her level," he said, "otherwise, she won't ever be good at playing in her 20's." The coach nodded to her and warned her to be on time. "Or you're running laps."

At dinner, she was starving, and it was almost hard to keep normal table manners. For the sake of looking 'lady like', she counted between bites and delicately dabbed her bread in her reddish, fish tasting soup. When they were preoccupied, she'd shove the whole piece in her mouth. Polly looked over, a small smile on her face, "hungry?"

Embarrassingly, she looked over, cheeks puffed with bread. "Mhm." Polly nodded, giving the hungry child more bread and soup.

Finn narrowed his eyes, "but you're a girl. You're eating too much-"

"And?" John laughed. "You're a boy and balls are still hanging higher than your belly button. Nevermind you take a piss sitting."

Polly reached over and whacked John, "mixed company!"

Under his breath, Finn said, "they have and no I don't. I haven't sat for a piss since I was 5."

After dinner, Amelia followed Finn to his bedroom, "do you want to play a game?" He turned, narrowing his eyes, but still piqued with some curiosity. "Hide and go seek!"

"Are we five?" he mocked. "Please-"

"Worried ya'll lose?"

"No," he pouted. "But it's stupid and childish."

"You hide and I seek," she said, "does that sound fair? If I find you in under five minutes, you owe me that ice cream. But, Finn Shelby, if you win, I know where Mr. Shelby put boxes of my da's bootlegged cigars-"

"And you'd be stupid to steal one," he said, shaking his head. "Don't do that."

"Fine, but can we please play?"

Finn agreed and Amelia put her head against the wall and began counting to 100. When she hit 100, she went to his bedroom first then her own room to check in every nook and cranny. Downstairs, she opened every closet and pantry, and checked the sofa. Ada hissed lightly when Amelia bumped her head into her leg, disturbing her nail filing. "Sorry, Ada, have you seen Finn?"

She paused, looking down at her, "and how exactly would he fit under the couch? Why would he even be under the couch?"

Amelia chuckled, "we're playing a game."

"Check the cupboard under the stairs." Amelia did just that, but he was not there. "Check the loo." She ran upstairs and opened the bathroom door, but she was met with an empty bathroom.

"Finn?" Time was running out and he was nowhere to be found. When it did, he popped out of Polly's room, chomping on some biscuits.

"Time's up," he said, grinning. "You didn't check all the rooms-"

"You shouldn't go in the adults' rooms," she said.

"You can go in Polly's and Ada's, Arthur usually doesn't care because he's passed out drunk half the time," he said, partially in thought. "So, my cigar?"

"I thought you said I shouldn't?"

"Tommy went out to the stables," he said, "we have about 4 minutes to grab one and go from his office."

Together, they snuck to the opposite side of the home and slipped into a dark office. Amelia flicked on the light, but Finn quickly turned it off. "He can see from the stables, you complete tool!"

"But I can't see-"

"Here," he said, flicking on his lighter. It barely helped, but time was running out. Amelia quickly looked around for the stack of cigar boxes. She opened his coat closet and smiled as the bright orange boxes stuck out. She opened one and took two out. She handed one to Finn and then shoved one up her sweater sleeve. She shut the closet and went to turn.

Tommy Shelby flicked on his light, and said, "to think I was not invited to a party in my own office." He took off his coat and hung it over the rack. John followed suit, shaking his head at his brother, giving him an 'are you stupid' look. "Don't look at him like that, John. Something tells me he was not the master of whatever stupid ploy this was. Finn, leave."

Finn nodded, "yes, sir." He turned, but John grabbed him.

"Drop the cigar," he scolded, and the boy quickly gave his older brother the Cuban back.

Amelia stood still, feeling it was taking an awful long time for anyone to speak. "I'm sorry, I will go to bed." She went to leave, and Tommy looked at John, who grabbed the girl by her tender shoulders. Tommy pushed off his desk, leaving his cigarette in the ashtray. He kneeled to meet her height. Often, Amelia showed no fear, but it was hard when Tommy Shelby was fear himself. "Are you going to hit me?"

He reached up and grabbed her chin, and asked, "do you normally snoop in your daddy's office?" She winced at his pinch and moved her head. With a pout, he apologized before grabbing her face, fingers pressing into her cheek bones. "Better?"

"Tommy," John warned. "15?"

Ignoring his brother's interjection, he asked, "Amelia, I know you have a cigar somewhere on you. Drop it."

She shook her head, "no. I don't."

He clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Are you lying to me? Hm? That is not a very good girl. That hurts my feelings, Amelia. And to think I was so proud of you today. Drop the cigar. Or do I have to find it? And I will find it." Amelia let the cigar drop from her sleeve to her hand and John took it. "I'm sorry, sir. Can I go to bed now?"

"Amelia, if you are to live here, you have to follow my rules," he said. "One of them being there are two places in this home you are not to go. First being my office and the second being the room attached to the parlor with doors covered by a curtain."

"Yes, sir," she agreed.

"Good girl." He loosened his grip on her cheeks. "Now, repeat it."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because rules don't stick in your head very easily," he explained. "Now, repeat the rule. C'mon, Amelia, I will keep you in this office until morning, just you and I, until you learn to obey my orders. Trust me, love, you wouldn't like that very much."

"I am not to go in your office or the room connected to the parlor," she said.

"Now," he said, "your punishment. How do you think I should punish you, Amelia?"

"Tommy," John sighed, "she understands now."

"My brother thinks you know your place," he said, a grin on his face. "But if it was that easy, you'd be a smart little girl by now. Something tells me your father didn't spank you hard enough. I will ask you one more time, how should I punish you?" She swallowed, her eyes drifting to his black leathered belt. He chuckled, "no, no. You don't get that yet."

"I want to leave," she said, getting uncomfortable, and trying to push away from John's grasp. John spun her to look at him and he frowned, raising his hand. As softly as he could while still seeming to be harsh, he slapped Amelia. She was stunned, not ever being slapped as such. Her father and mother weren't opposed to whacking her around, but when it came to disgracing her face as such, they'd never. Amelia cried out, holding her burning cheek.

"Go to bed," Tommy said, "and tomorrow, you will be better."

She could not dare to look at either of them as she left in a hurry, tears dripping down her hot face. Glancing in the hallway mirror, she noticed her cheek was red and swelling. Finn peaked from his room, and whispered, "Tommy hit you?"

She shook her head, "no."

His eyes widened, "John? John barely whacks his own bastards around. He's never even landed a hand on a fly...I mean, he's tough, but not the slap women around kind." Finn walked over to her and gently touched her cheek, and when she winced back, he said, "you don't think I'm gonna whack you, do you? It doesn't look bad. He did it to make you understand, is all. We shouldn't have been fo'kin around in there. Not safe, I suppose. Tommy just wants to make sure you don't get hurt. I'll tell 'em at breakfast it was me and he'll whack me one."

"I'm going to bed," Amelia replied, pushing by and disappearing in her room. Finn frowned and when John came walking down the hall, he gave him a look.

"Why you slap her like so?"

John popped a cigarette in his mouth. "Mind yourself, Finn. It wasn't a big slap and if you were man enough to own up to it, she wouldn't have gotten slapped. You knew better."