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“Lumiere and Cogsworth will sign anything anyone asks them to sign. Last week they signed a petition to declare every day a holiday,” his father said, amused.
Ben had to laugh. King Beast had a point. The fussy Frenchman and the jolly Brit would agree to anything so they could get back to their work. Chip Potts, who was known to make a little mischief around the castle, had probably put them up to it.
“That’s the ticket. Listen to your people, but assert your right to rule. Lead with a gentle heart and a firm hand. That’s the way to be a king!”
King Beast extended his own fist, and Ben just stared at it. He gazed down at his own hand, which looked like a small child’s in comparison to his father’s.
Beast pulled Ben up by the arm, closing his hand around his son’s. “There. Strong. Powerful. Kingly.”
King Beast’s hand was so enormous Ben found he could no longer see his own.
“Strong. Powerful. Kingly,” Ben repeated.
Beast growled, then slapped his son on the back, almost sending him flying into the nearest decorative lamp. The floor shook as he strode out of the room, still chuckling.
Queen Belle looked relieved; Beast was not above making a joke at his own expense—though he was much less forgiving when anyone else attempted the same line of humor. She put her arms around her son, drawing him close.
“Ben. You don’t have to be another King Beast. Just be yourself—it’s more than enough.”
“That’s not what Father says.”
Belle smiled. They both knew there was no use trying to explain away his father’s logic, and she didn’t try. “No matter what, your father and I believe in you. That’s why we wanted you to start meeting with the Council. It’s time for you to learn how to rule. You will make a wonderful king, all on your own. I promise.”
“I hope so,” Ben said, uncertainly.
“I know so,” Belle said, kissing his cheek.
As the feather-light steps of his mother faded away, Ben took up his pen and turned back to his pages. This time, though, all he could see was his fist, with the same golden beast-head ring that his father wore.
Strong. Powerful. Kingly.
He clenched his fingers harder.
Ben swore he would make his father proud.
“Well, you look very pleased with yourself,” said Jay as Mal settled into her front-row seat and propped her feet up
on the desk next to her.
“I am,” she said. “I just taught that little blueberry what it means to feel left out.”
“Carlos looked like he was going to have a cow when you told him he was hosting your party.”
“You mean a dog?” Mal laughed, even though the joke was getting old.
Jay elbowed her with a wink before melting away to his desk in the back of the room.
Mal was in a good mood. This class was her favorite: Advanced Evil Schemes and Nasty Tricks, taught by Lady Tremaine, otherwise known as the Wicked Stepmother. Mal was particularly fond of Mean-Spirited Pranks.
“Hello, you dreadful children,” Lady Tremaine said, entering the room with a swish of her petticoats and casting a bored look at the class in front of her. “Today we will embark on our annual class project: Crafting the Ultimate Evil Scheme.”
She turned toward the chalkboard and wrote in earsplitting cursive: The Cinderella Story: Once Upon a Broken Glass Slipper. “As you well know,” she said, as she turned back to the students, “my manipulation of Cinderella was my greatest evil deed. For years I kept her in the attic and treated her as a virtual servant. If not for some horrid meddling mice, one of my daughters would be the queen of Charming Castle right now, instead of that ungrateful girl. And so, the goal of every teacher at Dragon Hall is to train the new generation of villains not to make the same mistakes we did. You must learn to adapt, to be faster, more cunning, and wickeder than ever before. You will spend this year working on an evil scheme of your choosing. The student with the best nasty trick will win Dragon Hall’s Evilest of the Year award.”
The class nodded their heads in unison, each filling with a variety of ideas for awful tricks. Mal scratched her nose with the end of her purple-plumed fountain pen, wondering what her year-long scheming project would be. She looked around the room at her fellow students scribbling away on notepads, brows furrowed, some cackling softly under their breaths. Her mind was racing with horrid ideas, each more horrid than the last. Lock all the first-years in the dungeon? Been there, done that. Fill the hallways with cockroaches? Child’s play. Let a stampede of goblins loose in the slop hall? That would be just a regular Tuesday.…
Across the room, Mal heard a soft giggle. She looked over her shoulder to find that annoying new girl Evie chatting cheerfully with Carlos De Vil as they played with some sort of black box on his desk. Ugh. That girl had nothing to be happy about. Why, hadn’t she, Mal, just told her she couldn’t come to the howler of the year? Mal was slightly disconcerted for a moment, until she realized: the evil scheme of the year was right in front of her.
A twisted smile formed on her lips, and she chewed her fountain pen for a moment before scribbling a page’s worth of notes.
