Page 46 of A Match Made in Error

In the center of the room, someone accuses another of something. I can’t make out the accusation, nor do I really care, and the voices continue to rise. I press my body to the wall, watching in a weird combination of abject horror and amusement as drinks begin to be thrown.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the melodic voice of a fae woman whispers beside me. She tucks a lock of curled hair behind her ear. “I don’t know if that means I run in boring or safe circles.”

I laugh. “I’d say safe.” My shoulders turn to her, blocking out the chaos continuing behind us. “I’m Poppy.”

“Aoife.” Her name rolls rhythmically off her lips, laced in the cadence of an accent I’ve never heard before. Riven’s accent is nothing like this, so I know she isn’t a shadow fae…I wonder what power she wields then. “I’ve seen you around with that shadow wielder. Hells of a dancer that one.” She fans herself, and my face heats. Don’t remind me. That dance brought out a foreign and unwelcome mindset within me.

“Yeah,” I brush my hand over my neck, temporarily ridding it of hair to allow the fan to kiss it. “He loves attention,” I say it with no malice. He does, and this is safer territory than talking about…well, almost anything else she might talk about in regard to my match, like love or sex or falling for him. Some fae are sensitive to lies and if she is that kind…I’d be screwed.

“And your match…?” I trail off, not knowing his name.

“Noah,” she sighs, like even thinking about him is a dreamy pleasure. “He’s much more reserved than your Riven, but I’m obsessed with him and the way he talks about history, of all things.” She adds with a wave of her hand, “He’s a professor, and I didn’t even finish university. Dropped out to start a bakery. Imagine that.” I nod along, following her fast, lithe accent with amusement.

“Dinner is served,” a waiter declares, gesturing to the single long table set with draped cloth and dozens of flower arrangements. Did that just magically appear, or am I more distracted tonight than I thought?

“Sit with me?” Aoife asks. “I don’t know any of these other women, and some of them scare me.”

I laugh, eyes passing over a still-bickering Angora whose long linen dress is dotted with wine stains. “I do know one of them, and you’re right to be afraid.”

We take our seats at the end of the table, right in front of a bowl of dip made from balsamic and tomatoes, and a flight of grilled bread. I don’t think twice before grabbing two pieces of bread and a mound of dip. I don’t know how to act right in front of anything made from dough, if I’m being honest. Plus, I didn’t really eat lunch today, just munched around on miscellaneous things that we had in the bungalow: chips, nuts, fruit, etc. Delicious, but not substantial.

Aoife leans forward with an easy, lilting smile, her pale hair cascading over one shoulder like spun glass. There is a faint glow to her skin, like she’s…lit from within. A light fae. Riven’s opposite.

“I promise it’s better than it looks,” Aoife says, nudging a plate toward me.

I glance down. The dish is…art. Or chaos. Maybe both.

A shallow bowl holds a swirl of saffron cream, the color somewhere between sunset and melted gold. Nestled into it are ribbons of hand-cut pasta. Roasted onions glisten like tiny jewels, caramelized at the edges, while slivers of seared pheasant rest on top, the skin crisped to a delicate crackle.

It even smells expensive.

I pick up my fork, twirling a bit of pasta and dragging it through the sauce. The first bite is rich without being heavy, the saffron warm and slightly floral, the pheasant tender with just enough bite to remind me it isn’t just chicken. The onions melted sweetly, balancing everything out.

“Oh,” I say before I can stop myself.

Aoife grins. “Told you.”

“I take back every bad thing I thought about this night.”

“Every bad thing?” She eyes the chaotic lot sharing our table space.

I smile faintly, taking another bite. “Okay, most of them.”

Around us, the noise swells. Laughter, the clink of glasses, the sharp edge of voices already tipping to an argument once more. Someone shrieks down the table, followed by a chorus of “oh my Fate” and “he did not.”

I don’t even have to look to know where that energy was coming from.

“Is it going to be like this all night?” I ask, lowering my voice slightly.

Aoife follows my gaze, amused. “Cocktail hour already had a drink thrown, so…yes. Probably.”

I huff softly. “Great.”

I’d seen the aftermath—wine dripping down the front of Angora’s dress, mascara streaking as she shouted back at someone across the room.

As if summoned by the thought, Angora’s voice cuts through the noise, nasally, sharp, and just loud enough to carry.

“Well, if he actually had any standing, maybe you wouldn’t be worried about where you’ll live after the Festival.” I don’t look immediately. I take another bite instead, chewing slower than necessary.