On the jagged, salt-sprayed edge of the island stood the Castle-Across-the-Way. It was not a palace; it was a mausoleum of vanity. For twenty years, the Evil Queen and her daughter, Evie, had been entombed here. While Maleficent's home was a fortress of fear, this was a ruin of ego. There were no servants, only spiders weaving webs over cracked chandeliers, and a silence so heavy it felt like physical weight.
The Evil Queen had not just grown "odd"; she had fractured. She spent her days addressing a wall where a magic mirror once hung, her voice a hollow, rhythmic chant.
"Magic mirror in my hand... who is the fairest in this land?" she whispered, her fingers clutching at empty air.
"Mom, there's nothing in your hand," Evie said, her voice weary. She was twenty years old, yet she was still treated like a porcelain doll in a burning house. Her stomach cramped with a familiar, gnawing hunger. The "breakfast" provided by the vultures the island's avian scavengers consisted of bread so hard it could draw blood and coffee that tasted of ash.
"A daughter's grace is but a mask for a face that lacks the glow of the fairest," the Queen intoned in her 'Mirror' voice.
To the Queen, Evie wasn't a person; she was a project. A weapon to be sharpened. Every inch of Evie's skin was a battlefield of rouge and lead-based powders. The Queen blamed her exile not on her crimes, but on a perceived failure of beauty. It was a poison that ran deep the apple hadn't just fallen near the tree; it had rotted into the roots.
"You look sallow. If you aren't beautiful, you are invisible. And if you are invisible, you are dead," the Queen hissed, pinching Evie's cheeks until they bruised a dull red.
Evie adjusted her rags—a skirt of patched silk and leggings printed with the distorted patterns of a dead forest. She wore a heart-shaped ruby at her throat, a drop of blood against the grey of the island. She was terrified. Twenty years ago, Maleficent had pronounced a sentence of social death upon them. Stepping out was a gamble with a high price.
"Is it safe?" Evie whispered.
"Twenty years is a long time for a grudge," the Queen lied, her eyes glazed with a desperate need for more wrinkle cream. "Go. Fetch my tinctures from the bazaar. And don't let the sun hit your face; you'll freckle."
Dragon Hall was a mausoleum masquerading as a school. The air inside smelled of wet stone and the ozone of the barrier. Evie felt the eyes of the other students the "urchins" her mother despised boring into her back like needles.
She was intercepted by the Gaston twins. They were massive, hairy monuments to vanity, their identical smiles wide and predatory. They led her to the office of Dr. Facilier, the man who traded in shadows.
"Ah, the little Princess," Facilier purred, his smile like a jagged jack-o'-lantern. He sat behind a desk cluttered with tarot cards that no longer told the truth. "Twenty years in that ruin. How is the 'Fair' Queen?"
"She's... consistent," Evie replied, trying not to look at his shadow, which seemed to be reaching for her own.
She managed to talk her way into "Advanced Vanities," a class that taught the art of the masquerade. Outside, the Gaston twins offered her "lunch" grey, mold-speckled bread and liverwurst that smelled of a shallow grave. Evie took it, her hunger outweighing her disgust.
The classroom was a pit of rusted cauldrons. Evie took a seat near the front, trying to ignore the moss dripping from the ceiling. A fat black cat, Lucifer, watched her with a gaze that felt entirely too human.
The room went silent.
A shadow fell over her cauldron. Evie looked up and saw a girl with hair the color of a bruised plum and eyes that held the cold fire of a dragon.
"I'm Evie," she said, her voice trembling despite her practiced smile. "I love your jacket. The patchwork is... exquisite."
"The patchwork is made of things I've taken from people like you," Mal replied, her voice a low, lethal rasp.
"Girl, you're in her seat. You should leave while you still have skin," whispered Yzla
Evie saw the recognition in Mal's eyes. This wasn't a school rivalry; this was a blood feud. Mal didn't just want the seat; she wanted the satisfaction of the kill her mother had started twenty years ago. Mal plonked her lead-heavy backpack into the cauldron, the metal clanging like a funeral bell.
Evie retreated to the back, settling next to a boy with hair like a lightning strike black at the roots, white at the tips. Carlos.
"That's Mal," Carlos whispered, his eyes darting toward the purple-haired girl. "Her mother is the reason we have the barrier. Her mother is the reason we starve. If you're smart, you'll treat her like a god. A vengeful one."
Evie looked at the back of Mal's head. She had spent twenty years hiding from a curse, only to walk right into the arms of the daughter who inherited it.
Magic Mirror on the wall... how long until I lose it all?