Page 22 of A Match Made in Error

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“What’s with the tone? This bungalow is amazing.” Riven drops our bags on the bamboo floors and looks out the balcony doors in awe. “Look at this view!” He practically runs into the bathroom. “There are robes in here…and fish in the floor!” His head pokes out, child-like wonder painting his features. “I can watch clownfish while I-”

“I understand the implications of toilet ocean views, Riven. You don’t need to spell it out.” He shrugs and pulls his head back in, continuing his exploration of our quarters.

Our home for the month floats just beyond the shoreline, tethered to the reef by slender bridges of white stone and gold-veined wood just kissing the sandy beach. Its walls are carved with open arches instead of windows, draped in sheer silks that ripple with the sea breeze. Lanterns hover without flame, and the air hums with quiet enchantments meant to muffle sound, ward prying eyes, and encourage intimacy. It is unmistakably designed for intimacy, a place that assumes shared nights and whispered confessions, and leaves very little room for anything else.

It is amazing. Otherworldly almost.

But it only has one bed.

A singular, draped bed dominates the space. It’s wide, low, and layered with soft linens that smell faintly of salt and bergamot. The bed is positioned so the ocean lies directly beneath it, visible through a glass panel that glows softly with warded light and holds the watching eyes of a dozen fish and a few judgmental-looking crabs.

The sight of the bed makes my stomach drop like I’ve missed a step on a staircase. It’s so obviously meant for two people who wouldn’t think twice about where their hands might land in such close vicinity. My pulse skitters and, suddenly, I’m aware of everything—my bare feet on the warm floor, the quiet lap of water beneath the bungalow, and the way Riven’s presence fills the space without him even moving.

This isn’t panic exactly. No, I would know the difference. Panic is what I felt after my second Festival of Fates when I left soulmate-less and began to realize I might be the problem. This is something sharper, heavier. The kind of unease that comes from realizing there’s nowhere left to put the feelings I’ve been pretending don’t exist. I belong to no one and nothing, and yet I have to pretend otherwise.

“Poppy, what’s wrong?” he asks, but my reply is to keep staring at the bed and hope he gets the hint. “Let me fix it.”

Riven freezes when his eyes trace the path to where I am looking.

“Snap your fingers and magic another bed in here,” he says as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“The room, this island, belongs to the Moirai. They are powerful witches who can, I’m sure, sense when magic is being used to alter their plans on their own island. Plus, you heard them say that I can’t conjure things from off the Isle. If I pop another bed in here, that means it’s being taken from somewhere else nearby, and I’m sure its absence will not go unnoticed.” I draw in a breath before continuing, “Eventually, our handler would come in here and see it, and I don’t think it will look good for our whole faking-it thing if we appear lovey-dovey out there and then are sleeping separately in here.” That is, if we don’t call it off. The only thing keeping me from doing so is the look in Riven’s eyes every time rejection comes up.

“I can sleep on the floor.” He offers this so quickly it stings. I don’t want to share a bed with him either, but I hate being reminded that no one wants to share a bed with me. “Or the windowsill. Or hanging from the rafters.” He shrugs, a smile that had heated the backs of many a maiden’s necks appearing. “I’m versatile.”

He waits for my laugh, so I give him a weak one. “A pity laugh?” He winces. “Things must be more dire than I thought.” Good, he’s finally realizing that this isn’t funny to me. “Just tell me where you want me,” he adds with a crooked half-smile. “I’m very good at following instructions.” He walks up to me, loving to be in the space of those he’s mercilessly teasing. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and grins like he’s waiting for me to actually laugh. But I don’t.

Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone before I can name it.

“We can sleep in rotation if you want. I can take the floor tonight,” I offer. That would be fair.

“Absolutely not. If you sleep on the floor, I’ll be haunted for life.”

My eyes roll. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’re soft and precious and bruisable,” he says mildly, already tugging the blankets back like the matter’s settled. “You’re sleeping in the bed.” Then, “What if…” he pauses, glancing at me with that infuriatingly easy confidence. “We share it, and I behave. Scout’s honor.”

I snort. “You were never a scout, and you’ve never behaved a day in your life.”

“True,” he admits, stretching his arms above his head as he fights a yawn. “But I am very good at pretending I follow rules.”

I huff, sending the hair framing my face puffing out as I curse the Moirai’s interior decorator for not putting a couch in here. “Just…stay on your side,” I concede. It’s a king’s bed. We can share it without touching. Right?

“Yes, ma’am,” he says instantly, and then, of course, proceeds to sprawl like the concept of decorum has never met him. One arm slung behind his head, one knee cocked, utterly at ease. Always lounging. Always making himself comfortable in rooms he shouldn’t. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, exasperated and unwillingly fond, and think: this is how he survives things. By acting like he belongs wherever he lands. Maybe I should take a lesson from his book this month. Honestly, learning to be more carefree would make this whole ordeal worth it.

I take a deep breath and look out over the Isle. Even from here, I can see that the Isle of Fate isn’t just beautiful; it’s designed to soften people and make them more open, more susceptible to connection. I can feel it in my chest. The magical pull to be authentic. It’s nauseating to feel that way while harboring a secret.

I shake my head and focus on the scenery and not the gnawing guilt in my core. The shoreline curves in a crescent of white sand, and the water shifts from pale glass to deep turquoise, almost impossibly clear. All the overwater bungalows stand on stilts, scattered like constellations across the sea. Thatched roofs, soft white drapery, and carved wooden doors make them look nearly identical. Each one is connected by narrow wooden walkways with a dotting of lanterns on either side that glow along the paths at night, reflected in the water like a second sky.

Our bungalow feels cozy and almost private, but not entirely. The wide porch lies perpetually open, set with two chaise lounges and direct access to the water. The gentle sound of the tide coming through the opening reminds us that we’re never entirely alone and that someone could always be watching.

I flop on the bed, staring out at the other bungalows and smooth water. We’ve only just arrived, and everything is new and surreal and overwhelming. How am I going to do this for a month? I inhale deeply, letting the smell of fresh linens and salty air lull me slightly. The sky is nearly black, deep indigo with stars scattered thick and bright above us. I’m half-propped against the pillows, taking it all in as Riven sprawls deeper beside me, boots kicked off somewhere, completely at ease like he owns the place already.

For a while it’s just the water, the breeze, peace and quiet. Then⁠—

A cry carries over the water.