Realm-hopping detected, Belle took a knowing sip of her tea. What he described might not have been identical to her experience, but it fell close enough that it resonated, and the part about books in particular. She took a quick, prideful glance around her library, a sense of relief washing over her that he had at least something familiar.

Belle wasn't from here either, after all, and Ben's tale of Auradon sounded close enough to the Enchanted Forest to provide some context — and although Belle clearly knew about alternate worlds, alternate versions of herself were something she hadn't had the pleasure of becoming acquainted yet with. She wanted to provide some words of comfort, some sense of common ground, but something pinged her as more urgent.

"You were sixteen?" she asked, eyebrows shooting up. Even being nobility herself, Belle can't imagine having that weight so young. Her father had sheltered her (or made every attempt to); the throne and the responsibility of a kingdom hadn't even been a realistic option for her until she was at least ten years his senior. She places her teacup down, fingers still on the handle, rotating it on the table. Hesitantly, she adds, "And what about your father?"