Let's agree to agree that there are too many questions left unsettled. The United States of Auradon and the Blue & Gold Throne hold many more scandals and secrets than were revealed. So we're just going to have to tease them out one painful memory at a time.
Does that sound like fun?
It shouldn't. This is a good story for bad people, after all. Try not to enjoy it too much.
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ROSE IN CRUEL CURVES (1) — Before :: Walk of Shame
It's late, around midnight, and Evie's carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin.
For some reason, Evie thinks, the missing click-clack of her heels makes the walk home harder. Her stockinged feet barely make any sound on the cobblestones of the street (which is just as well, because it's dark, she's alone, and it's creepy as heck in this part of town). Evie reaches the end of the street, peeks around the corner for other people, and, seeing none, trudges forward.
She dangles a pair of cute blue heels at her side, too exhausted and in too much of a hurry to wear them home. Her dearly beloved mother, the Queen, would strangle her if she saw her walking the streets of the Isle of the Lost (even this part of it) without her heels on, looking anything less than perfect when there could a Prince around any corner.
Although, to be fair, there are more reasons that her mom would want to kill her; most importantly: (1) it's almost midnight (2) on a school night, (3) she was at a party, (4) a wild party, (5) and now she's walking home down dangerous streets from said party (6) alone.
"But who can blame me?" Evie asks the warm, empty night air. "Friday nights are made for parties."
She soldiers on down the street, past broken streetlights and overfilled trash cans.
The first Friday of each month is the one time when the Queen is out of her hair; at nightfall, without fail, she promptly disappears without explanation. Rumors fly throughout the castle of secret, sadistic, sinister rituals she performs each month for eternal youth and beauty, but Evie figures she just takes a spa night and poses in front of their old, broken magic mirror. So, with nobody breathing down her neck ("Remember your laugh lines, dear!") and a lifetime spent locked in a castle with her mom, it's the perfect time to venture out and discover the world she'd been denied for fourteen years. Because she's starting classes at Dragon Hall in a few weeks, finally joining the real world (well… as real as can be on the Isle of the Lost), but there's SO MUCH she needs to catch up on: news, gossip, friends, princes, and parties.
Parties… are hard.
They shouldn't be, but Evie's first party, only last month, was a disaster. Everybody else on the Island grew up together and already knew each other (not hard on an island full of infamous villain families), so cliques were tight and all talk was inside jokes and years-long grudges. At the center of the hoopla was Mal—daughter of the Mistress of Evil herself, Maleficent, and a blossoming, pernicious, teenage enchantress in her own right (if sources were to be trusted). Evie was the opposite of that: infamous but secluded, known but unrecognizable, and hopelessly out-of-place in a crowd of rowdy Island partiers. With all the loud music and dancing limbs, it was almost impossible to just dive into the tight groups of chatting bodies, so she spent the entire time in the corner watching everybody else laugh and sing and fight and slip away from the crowds in pairs.
This time was different. Evie had put herself out there and talked to four people. Well, she talked at four people who stared at her with gaping mouths then slowly inched away when she finished, but it was progress! Maybe next time she'll sing in front of everyone...
Right now, Evie's a tired, sleepy hot mess. The only thought as she ducks around the empty streets toward her castle is whether she'll be able to sneak back all the way into her room before the Que—
Something catches her eye.
A rusty fire escape clings to the side of a small warehouse; half a block ahead of her and two stories above, dull lights flicker through a large, open window and illuminate a hunched figure peeking in.
And, for a single second, she thinks it might be him.
They bumped into each other at the party (literally). He appeared put of nowhere, and when she started talking and couldn't stop, he actually answered. So they talked, and talked some more, and found themselves in the hallway away from the crowd still talking, and then alone upstairs somehow still talking, and then… well... he had not been a prince, but... (Evie feels her face get hot just remembering…) The late hour had been a perfect exit strategy when things got dicey.
Evie immediately realizes the figure is unfamiliar—the figure is too boyish, dressed very differently than… anyone she remembers. The fatigue of the night washes over Evie again; her arms want to keep swinging on down the road, her aching legs push her to keep marching, her drooping eyes draw her back toward the castle in the short distance…
But Friday nights are made for adventure.
Evie gingerly steps up the tawny ladder, her ascent basically silent in stockings, and giggles after declaring a "Hello!" and watching the unaware boy flip out in front of her.
She was right: he's a bit scrawny for his age, and scruffy to boot. It's hard to pin down the dull light, but he's composed of various contrasts: dark eyebrows on a light, freckled face, white-blonde hair with black roots. Even his wardrobe is a dusty combination of black-and-white.
Evie opens her mouth to launch into her third brave action of the night and possibly make her first real friend, when the boy lurches forward and clamps a hand over her lips.
"Shhhhh!"
She is about to protest, to get offended, to tell the dude to take his ratty hands off the money-maker, when she catches what he's motioning at: through a half-open panel of smudged glass, she glimpses the muted lustre of an unpolished crown sitting atop black cotton.
Mother.
Evie almost yelps, but the dude still has his hand over her mouth.
"You seriously gotta promise to be quiet. If you do, I'll let go. So… can I let go of you?"
She nods.
He releases and wipes his hands on scraps of a black-and-white pair of pants. The boy's an oddball, for sure, and she would look him over longer if she wasn't being magnetically drawn to whatever is going on inside this random warehouse at midnight. On the other side of the cracked glass window, a story below, sits a card table surrounded by three very notorious and feared island-dwellers.
"Are you going to play a hand, Jafar, or are you just going to count cards all night?"
"Well, I presume that depends whether that necklace you're hiding in your coat is ever making it to the pot."
"Less complaining and more losing, you two. I have a castle and daughter to get back to..."
Evie flinches at her mom's voice. Somehow, outside the castle walls, it sounds… grimier, less polished, unrefined. Even hidden in the shadows above, she feels exposed and a twitch away from being punished to kingdom come. Still, she's baffled: is this where she goes during her monthly Wednesday disappearances? What is the Queen, who hates frivolities and niceties, doing sitting around a poker table with this ilk?
"I fold," Jafar responds, laying his cards on the table and crossing his arms.
Cruella de Vil rolls her eyes and groans. "Oh, all that dawdling just to give away your hand?"
He shrugs coldly. "I only play games with prizes worth winning."
"Don't worry, darling, you've never won anything worth having."
"Sorry, I couldn't hear you over all that barking."
Cruella's tightens her grip on her cards and opens her mouth, then closes it in continued frustration. Evie feels the boy beside her flinch.
"...Admit it, you sit in that garbage-dump-of-a-store all day with your boy and just dream up new ways to vex me, don't you?"
Jafar looks away. "No, I take care of that during my morning bowel movement."
The Queen sighs across the table from the two; she glances over her shoulder at a nearby window, dusty and cracked, and mutters. "Magic mirror in this pit, I was resurrected for this bullsh—?"
Cruella cackles. Momentarily losing interest in the bearded sorcerer, she leans over to the queen. "Of course you were! We all were!"
Jafar shakes his head. "Not this again…"
Up high, another piece clicks for Evie: again... These are the Villains. The Big Bads. The ones people on the Isle whisper and threaten are going to kill you. Even locked in her mother's castle, she's heard the murmurs and dark jokes, though she's never understood them. They're rumors and threats about the worst that Villainy has to offer. And her mother is one of them. Not a Queen, but The Evil Queen.
Evie isn't dumb. She knows her family isn't of the best character (a fact made clear by how they can't keep staff longer than a few months). But she's always assumed they were the Fairest: distant royalty, imposing figures, eccentric celebrities, not… Villains.
"Yes, this again!"
"It's somebody else's turn to deal with this..." Jafar mutters.
"You were resurrected, my dear Queen," Cruella de Vil continues, "because the 'Heroes' thought death was too good for you. Dying, croaking, kicking the bucket: all too good for you and the lot of us."
"Enough already…"
"You were resurrected to appease the bloodiest definition of 'justice' anybody's ever thought of!"
"What if… we weren't?"
Cruella pauses and watches the Evil Queen. So does Evie. The matriarch leans forward and the royalty returns to her form: eyes narrow, chin up, mouth pulled tight.
"Well, Queenie, I don't know what to tell you, you're quite alive. That much is obvious."
"No, what if… Well, I guess now is as good a time to bring this up as any... If you bring this up while she's here, I'll deny it, but… what if we were not resurrected by the 'Heroes' at all? What if it was Maleficent?"
Cruella laughs. "No way!"
Jafar shakes his head. "Impossible…"
"And why not?"
The three freeze in their chairs, only swiveling eyes toward the distant sound of the icy question. Two deliberate steps bring Maleficent beside the table, almost as she's been there all along. Sharp and confrontational eyes betray the playful pout she wears and almost physically poke at the others.
"Ahem. Why not?"
Nobody budges.
"I never said you couldn't—"
"I'm not interested in the empty doubts of a spoiled heiress."
Cruella shuts her mouth and glowers. Again, Evie feels the boy next to her flinch. This time, for reasons she can't put into words, Evie places a light hand between his shoulder blades and rubs a few circles. She can feel his breath subside.
"But you, Jafar…" Maleficent leans in and gets the attention of the former sorcerer. "You know magic. You've tasted the 'cosmic power.' Why such a doubter?"
He looks away, seemingly measuring his words carefully, but doesn't get a chance to answer.
"You couldn't do it, could you?" the Evil Queen asks.
Evie gasps.
For an unspoken moment, the air is heavy and damp. The two powerful women look at each other impassively, neither blinking nor speaking. Even though she proposed the question in the first place, the Evil Queen seems to have already received enough of an answer in the cruel curves of Maleficent's sneer.
"No, I couldn't do it."
The boy beside Evie exhales. "She can't? I thought she was like… all-powerful," he whispers, not specifically to her.
Cruella joins in. "Well, of course, not. You were already dead. The Land of the Living is a better place for sorcery, I imagine."
"That's kind, but I couldn't have done it even if I was as fully-fleshed and beautiful as you and I are now."
Cruella raises her hand in defeat. "Well, why not?"
Maleficent sighs and places a hand over her eyes. It's difficult to tell whether she's frustrated, disappointed, embarrassed, or just feigning a combination of those feelings for bluster and diversion. But her voice is unwavering and her body is rigid.
"Tell them, Jafar."
"If it was blasting those do-gooder Auradon twerps with lightning," Jafar begins, "Dear, I'm sure you would have worked it all the livelong day. You could've engulfed them in flames or frozen them solid. You could've transformed into a dragon and flown circles around them or eaten them for lunch, but..."
The Evil Queen picks up the idea. "...But that's all Red Magic?"
Evie and the boy look at each other. Magic-talk is fairly taboo on the Island. It's almost embarrassing, like a bright, shining reminder that the "Good Guys" had them not only caged on the wretched Isle like bad pets, but also defanged, declawed, bad pets.
"What's Red Magic?" the boy asks.
"I think that's my lipstick color?"
The boy snorts and covers his mouth with both hands. He looks guilty for laughing, but takes his time recovering and looking back at the conspiring adults below. Evie's eyes linger on his forearm muscles and smattering of adorable freckles… before leaning back to the unfolding drama.
"That's right, Evil Queenie. Red Magic. Evil, wretched Red Magic, but… just that."
"And here I thought you were the most powerful witch in the kingdom?" Cruella asks, examining the lining of her fur coat.
Physically restraining herself against lashing out with a staff that isn't in her hands, Maleficent sneers but remains otherwise still. It's clear the intervening time on the Isle has created the slightest modicum of self-restraint in her icy persona.
"I am," she answers plainly. "Skilled and fierce. Powerful beyond my rivals. Way stronger than that old Godmother coot. I'm a literal wiz at Red Magic! Green Magic too! But even I have my limitations... Why, even that big blue goofball Genie, with all his Phenomenal Cosmic Power, is just a Red Magic birthday party magician. It's all in the Three Rules. Isn't it, Jafar?"
That seems enough to bring his attention back from out of the window and into the present. "Some of us would be happy to have that much power again, limitations and all," the Arabian sorcerer grumbles, not liking the truth anymore than Maleficent, but much less inclined to hold back his reactions.
"Indeed. But no, to bring us back…" Maleficent takes a step back and gestures widely with open arms. Her eyes travel to unseen audiences. "... To bring back all of us scoundrels, all of us 'Villains,' you'd have to be an expert, a Master of…"
Evie realizes she's holding her breath; the boy is wide-eyed. They're motionless, still as stones, dead as doornails, waiting for unknown words to finish lingering through viscous air.
"...Black Magic."
Silence.
The four figures of villainy suddenly seem smaller, slightly grayer.
They watch something (each other?) out of the corner of their eyes and seem unsure of how to rest their jaws.
Dust settles around them.
Finally, Jafar speaks. "You're crazy."
"Am I?" Maleficent retorts.
"That's impossible," he answers.
"Is it?"
"You're... you're just reaching for an explanation."
"What other explanation is there?"
"It's just a wild theory—!"
"—Not if I have PROOF."
"What kind of proof?"
"I think you know..."
"Oh, so now you're saying that he's behind all of this?!"
"Who?!" Cruella interrupts. "Dr. Facilier? He does... that kind of magic, doesn't he?"
Maleficent snorts. "Facilier is the fang that thinks himself a tiger. He's a Black Magician like I'm an eggplant."
"So, if I'm not mistaken, you're saying..." the Evil Queen cuts in, measuring her words carefully. "...we couldn't have been resurrected by heroes. You think we're here because…"
Maleficent smiles. "...because the Horned One found his Darling."
She steps back from the table, body in full tension, eyes scanning the shocked faces. Nobody argues or pressures a reply; they await silently in a daze, still as graves. Her fingers move slightly, almost protectively, while unspoken thoughts shuffle through her mind.
Abruptly, the sorceress turns toward the window in the ceiling.
Maleficent's eyes zero in on the edges, scrutinizing the opening, watching dust blow in from the outside, searching for…
BONG bong BONG bong...
Two blocks away, Evie stumbles across the street.
The clock at the center of the Island rings low and loud, signaling the midnight hour and the smashing of her fantastical pumpkin. She scurries madly, already determined to dismiss everything she's heard, already mentally burying the party and erasing the white-and-black-boy from her memory.
I watch the villain princess sprint down the street, heels in hand, deep into the mysteries of the night.