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It is just as frigid and unwelcoming outside the Hell Hall as it is inside. Still more gray than anything else, too as nothing stays purely white on the Isle - and the only truly black things are the Facilier's Shadows and the rotten hearts of the Isle's Villains.
Freshly fallen snow, virginal, and immediately chewed up by the Isle only to be spat out as its own nastiest approximation - as is the habit of this damned place.
Hence, the snow that looks more like ash than anything else.
He cringes as it squeaks under his boots and pulls his jacket closer against a particularly nasty gust of wind.
Yes, there is barely any difference between the dark streets and the halls of the Villa, but his mother doesn't mind. She's glad for any excuse to wear her coats inside - if only were she inclined to share, still.
It is the only thing he regrets, now, but not enough to argue with his dear mother - it is not that far to the Castle.
Sure, it'd be closer yet if he was willing to walk in through the front doors, but alas, he is not willing to meet the Queen.
And besides, he likes the gardens by the side door. Well, Evie likes them and his mother doesn't know about them which is basically the same thing.
Even the dubious plants look gray. He is not sure if that is on purpose or a side effect of existing on the Isle. Frankly, he is no if he wants to know.
Still, he walks through the dying foliage, careful not to snag his skin on it, as he is mostly sure that would be lethal. Nevermind that Evie would be upset.
He finds a path in the snow, footprints of these high-heeled shoes Evie wears even now, and he follows it to the door. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees a vivid droplet of red - lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow, that's how the story starts. And here he is, following a trail of blood in Evil Queen's garden.
His own blood freezes in his veins as he realises it can only be Evie's.
He exhales quietly and follows her path to the door, hidden and crouched in the shadow of the wall.
It is locked, of course, but nothing that would deter a thief foolish enough to enter.
Carlos de Vil is no thief, though, and the Evil Queen's daughter showed him the correct path through the visceral entrails of their once-grand castle.
The cold metal bites into his hand.
He hisses more in annoyance than in pain and enters.
Quiet, fast footsteps, he walks through the Castle, it's welcoming ambience doing keeping his thoughts off the blood in the garden.
Well, mostly.
Against his better raising, he hopes that Evie is okay.
In one too many heartbeats, though still unseen, he knocks on her door like the gentleman his mother thinks she raised, when she acknowledges she has a son at all.
" It's me, E," he whispers against the keyhole upon hearing her footsteps.
"Come on in, then," she whispers back. Her voice is gentle, a melody in sheer contrast of the cacophony outside.
She opens the door just a crack, just
enough for him to slip through and not an inch more. In the back of his mind, he wonders whether that might be due to an injury.
Quickly, he scans her form - as pretty as ever, he'd be a fool not to acknowledge that - and spots Are strips of fabric on her wrist. He reaches out, stopping just shy of her skin.
"What happened?"
" Nothing to be concerned of," she waves away his question and shoos him away from the door.
"I saw blood in the garden," he tells her, " you are a better liar than that."
" Will you believe me if I tell you it's not mine?" she ask, her innocent smile that has men and women dropping to their knees in hopes of pleasing her. If that worked on him, Hell Hall would have been hers ages ago and his mother burried. Hopefully.
" I will not," he informs her with his best stern look. (It is good, too, having sent several drunk street rats running just the other day. Sure, they might have just confused him with Diego, but he takes that as a compliment too. Alas, the princess of Evil is unimpressed, her lips set in a pout.)
" I had a present for you, but I won't give it to you unless you tell me," he informs her, Crossing his hands in front of his chest.
" Oh, what do you have?" she lights up, brighter than anything else on this miserable island ever does. Not enough for him to oversee her attempt to redirect the conversation.
He had seen enough of these plays from his cousins. Both of them. And his mother. It must run in the family.
"Talk first , princess ," he smirks at her, mostly because he knows she hates it.
"Please?"
Oh, but Carlos isn't so easy. He leans at the wall and watches her, looking carefully of any sign of pain. In this one way, he is as good actor as she is.
"It is such good gift too," he sighs, " but now I suppose I'll have to let lvy keep it."
Evie pouts more, before slowly sitting down on the bed and motioning for him to do the same. He sits, cross-legged across her.
Slowly, she sneaks out her uninjured hand to hold his, just barely, just fingertips. Her touch , always so gentle, is one of the few he can tolerate.
" My Mutti," she sights, "Her mirror needed blood."
Silence lays between them, as she tries to find words that won't sound too bad. She trully is a good liar.
" You know how she gets without it. It was better if I just... gave it to her."
" What about Ginny?" he breathes out, fast, selfish, as Gothel's too loud daughter isn't the one he cares about.
"Snowed in, I assume," she chuckles darkly, politely ignoring his strenghtening grip on her fingers' "And if my mother - or hers- went looking for her, they'd ruin their dresses, hair, and make-up. Which, as you can imagine, is fate worse than death."
He nods seriously. He can imagine. Mostly because his mother is the same.
"And?"
" And I desinfected the wound and dressed it cleanly, with medicinal herbs included," she sights heavily, " Now, my present?"
He smiles, mostly assured, and reaches into his pocket for the invite he brought for her, written by Dulcia Tremaine on heavy paper.
"The ball," he says, as he hands it over, "You should be there. Maleficent never stays more than fifteen minutes."
She looks at him, reluctant, the want clear in her eyes. The hill, however loosely-defined-
He lets her do the calculations.
Everyone will be present, and with no magic to speak of under the Barrier, well, how much sway could one wronged fey really have? With so much Villain kids, armed to teeth with iron weapons?
Her fingers dance over the invite.
"And Mal?" she asks, breathless, worried.
Carlos smirks again: He doesn't know Mal well, but he does know her enough.
"Oh, trust me, Evie," he says, "Mal won't be able to say a thing once she sees you in a real dress."