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Ben thanked them profusely and remarked that Quasimodo’s bell-ringing was indeed the best in the land. When the noonday chimes ended, they resumed their conversation.
“My family really appreciates you doing this,” said Lonnie. “My mom says she wishes she could have sent us her cricket for good luck.”
“Tell her thanks,” said Ben, taking a sip from his cup. “I’ve asked a bunch of councillors to meet us on their side of the Great Wall. The Grand Vizier agreed to meet with me. It’s important that they feel their voices are heard as well, since you are traveling with me.”
“Good idea,” said Lonnie. “I hope they listen to you. It would be a shame if things escalated.”
“I hope so too, but it’s more important that I listen to them,” said Ben, thinking of the various issues he’d worked on since taking the throne. Most notably, he had handled the sidekicks’ complaints and approved the cost of Camelot reparations after an out-of-control Madame Mim had plagued them earlier in the month.
“Is that what being king is all about?” asked Lonnie. “Listening?”
“Pretty much. How about you?” he asked. “Everything going okay?” He’d known Lonnie since they were kids, and they were almost like siblings. He remembered when Lonnie got her first sword at the age of five, and how she’d tried to stab Chip when he pulled her pigtails. Lonnie was there when Ben made his first balcony appearance; instead of waving to the crowd, he’d hidden his face in his mother’s shoulder. She’d teased him about it mercilessly.
“Yeah,” she said with a long sigh and fiddled with the sword at her waist.
“That doesn’t sound like everything’s okay,” he said, concerned.
“You know how you wish you could change things, but there’s nothing you can do about it?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” said Ben. “But there’s always something you can do about it.”
Lonnie looked longingly at her sword once more. “Maybe.”
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you can’t do something just because of who you are?” asked Lon
nie, as the waiter came by to offer them heaping platters of croissants and baskets of delicate pastries.
Ben considered it as he picked up a lemon tart and took a bite, smiling his thanks to the waiter. “Lots of times, actually.”
“Really?” Lonnie didn’t sound like she believed him.
“Yeah. When you’re king, you can’t just think of yourself or what you want. You have to think of the people, always.”
“Always?” she said skeptically. “I thought being king meant you always got your way, actually.”
“Maybe a terrible king, yeah—but not if you want to be a good one. Like, sometimes, I just really want to tell someone off, you know? Or lose my temper? Or just say what I mean? But I can never do that, because I’m the king. If I did, it would be a big deal—a yawn or an offhand comment suddenly becomes a matter of state. What I do matters more because of who I am, and so I can’t ever really be myself. I have to be the king, always.”
“I never thought of it that way,” said Lonnie, putting down a half-eaten éclair.
“Still, I’ve found a way to balance being me and being king. I’m the king of Auradon, but I do it my own way,” said Ben, thinking of how he had invited the villain kids to Auradon, over the objections of his parents and a host of disapproving courtiers. “So whatever it is you want, don’t let anyone stop you from dreaming your dreams and following through on them.”
“You sound like your mom,” said Lonnie with a smile.
“I try to,” said Ben, asking for the check. “She’s a wise woman.”
Some would say it was always unhappy hour at the Fish and Chips Shoppe, but during the early afternoon and evening, Tears of Despair and Spoilage Brew were half off, along with discount bowls of gruel and only slightly used dirty candy. A raucous crowd had gathered around a certain table, where an arm-wrestling match was under way between Gil and La Foux Doux.
Gil, just like his father and brothers, was manly, burly, and brawny with muscles to spare, and yes—every last inch of him was covered with hair. Okay, maybe not every last inch, but Gil was one of the finer specimens of the Isle of the Lost, with golden hair he kept under his bandanna and that signature cleft chin. He wore a faded leather doublet that showed off his arms, with two sword belts crisscrossing his chest and leather-patched jeans that were artfully distressed in the current “pirate” fashion.
Right now, Gil was doing what he loved to do: showing off his brute strength to the ladies. He slammed La Foux Doux’s arm down on the table in victory, sending the stout boy to the ground.
“What do we say?” said Gil.
