Page 17 of A Match Made in Error

Being matched is stirring up those old and treacherous feelings going to the Festival always ignited. I didn’t want this. There is a reason I didn’t enter this year. I think it’s a hoax and I didn’t want to be matched again, least of all to Riven. It’s like returning to the scene of the crime. The moment three years ago when my trust in happily-ever-afters first shattered. I thought that the Moirai hated to be wrong, but here they are, repeating their mistakes.

My hands pass over the scratchy fabric of my canvas weekend bag, a gift from my mother before the year this all started. “To tote your things as you make memories,” she’d said. Little did she know, my fairytale ending was far from close, and with her and my father living two kingdoms away, neither of them had to watch the fallout after that. Or my next failed match. Or the one after that. And the whole time, this bag has sat empty and collecting dust in my closet. Well, except the one night I stayed at Riven’s two solstices ago, but that doesn’t count because that’s not why she gave me this bag. It was for romance, not sleepovers with friends.

With quick fingers, the closet door slams shut.

“That was dramatic,” I groan, annoyed with myself. “Calm down, Poppy. Breathe.” I mimic Riven’s words, placing a hand over my heart and inhaling deeply before releasing it. Cool wood presses into my back, and I let it ground me before I throw the bag on my bed and start packing.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

I pull open my underwear drawer, throwing in mismatched pieces without care. It doesn’t matter. No one will be looking at them anyway. Lace scratches my fingers and silk slips through like falling water.

What does one even pack for an enchanted Isle? I’ve never been to one before. It was the type of place frequented by the rich or honeymooners, neither of which I’ve ever been.

I snap my fingers, calling on an old black swimsuit from wherever I’d stashed it in my room. The water-wicking fabric appears in my hand, and I look at the low-cut single piece for a moment before shoving it into my bag beside a bikini, a toiletry kit, and a pair of fuzzy socks. I pace in the bathroom, the woven rug supple beneath my bare feet.

The mirror mocks me, showing a visage of myself in the low light, looking ruddy from crying, and my hair a mess from running my hands through it ever since I got back. I laugh once, and a sharp, humorless sound barks out.

What am I doing? This is going to be a disaster. The Moirai are going to sniff out Riven and me faking it immediately, and I’m going to be cursed with seven years’ bad luck in love. Aren’t I unlucky enough as it is?

Quickly, I walk back to my bedroom, throwing face masks and nail polish into the bag. Panic begins to rise, acrid heat crawling up my throat as my heart races like a pixie’s wings. I force some sense into my mind, begging it to make the growing anxiety ebb away.

Riven will be there the whole time.

These words are meant to be comforting, and in a way they are, but they’re also cruel. Riven is there to save face and to mess with Fate, all while being his charming self in the most romantic place in the realm. I’ll have to see him daily, remembering our last Festival when he threw a soulbond away. Only good enough to be a friend. Always.

I press my hand to my chest, forcing my breaths to even out. It will be fine. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t love me. He has chosen me time and time again in all the ways that matter, and he will be there for me. Plus, I’m not in love with him either.

My stomach turns, and my anxiety quickly shifts to anger.

Anger at the Moirai.

I yank open a dresser drawer, cursing their names and the work of Fate as I throw silken pajama pants into my bag, imagining the clothes to be curses I could hurl at their wretched face.

I gave Fate three chances. I did everything right.

And that last thought is what breaks me.

“I’m done chasing destiny.” My words are soft and resolute. Anger dissipating into quiet resolve. The bed bows beneath my weight, cradling me as I put my face into my hands and sigh. The Moirai—Fate, really—left little more than an empty carcass, too afraid to even dream, and now I know I’m not afraid of Riven or the Isle; I’m afraid that going there will ignite the true-love-conquers-all hope I let die after my last failure.

My feet tread on the wood floors, marching me to the bathroom again until I’m looking in the mirror once more. My amber eyes are stoic now, set and unwavering as I stare myself down. I will survive this. I will treat it like a vacation. I will get a tan and abuse the open bar. And most important of all, I will not let myself hope anything more than that will happen.

My match will not be choosing me, but this time, it won’t break me.

Thinking back, though…did it ever actually completely break me?

Two Festivals Ago

POPPY

The tavern is alive with festive energy. Cool night air drifts through the open windows, and music spills from a fiddle in the corner. Someone slams their tankard down on the bar beside us as we walk by, their laughter rising over the noise. A barmaid weaves past us with a tray of drinks sloshing foam onto her arm.

“There he is!” I say to my match, pulling him behind me by the hand. Riven is leaning against the wall near the tankard toss table, a cocky half-smile hitching up one side of his mouth. I can’t believe how nervous I am for my match to meet my friends. After ending the Festival last year with just a friend, I really think this will be the one. I mean, would Fate really do that to me again? I’ve never heard of it happening either. Anyone who dares to enter a second time is all but guaranteed a soulmate.

I fuss with the edge of my sleeve, smiling brightly back at Arthur and laughing lightly even though nothing is funny and no joke has been told. He’s polished and posh, clearly unimpressed with the tavern and games happening within it. I mean, that’s nice. I’ve never dated someone so sophisticated before; maybe that’s been the issue.

“Are you ready?” I ask, cheeks hurting from the intensity of my smile.

He glances around like the tavern is beneath him, pushing his ashen hair out of his eyes. “This isn’t really my kind of place…” he trails off. Maybe he’s nervous too. One game will knock that right out of him.