Page 8 of A Match Made in Error

My hands touch hers, pulling them off me so I can walk away without sending her toppling over. The girl has enough trouble staying upright as it is. “I don’t do second thoughts, Pop. I do reckless optimism and emotional denial. It’s a tried-and-true system I’ve honed over the years.”

Her mouth opens, likely to protest. To challenge me as she always does. But she is stopped by the cacophony of the crowd dimming to a reverent hush as the Moirai step onto the stage. The air thickens. Lantern flames bow inward, as if they too are respecting the magic of Fate and its earthly acolytes.

The Mother steps forward first, hands folded, voice warm and carrying. “Welcome, those who seek love.” The crowd roars again for a moment before the demure raising of her hand silences them. “Before we begin the sacred matching ceremony, we have an unexpected announcement.” The murmurs begin, and even Poppy and I are pulled into the allure of her charm and magic. “This year’s Festival of Fates will not unfold as it has before.”

A ripple moves through the crowd.

The Maiden smiles, bright and eager. “There will be no returning home between trials. No slipping back into your comfortable lives. Once you are matched, you will depart for the Isle of Fate and remain there for the full turn of the moon.”

There’s a chorus of hoots through the crowd. A mixture of furrowed brows and excited clapping. What does she mean? For my entire life, the realm-respected Festival of Fates has taken place here, in Fate’s Fortune. Why would they change it now?

“An island?” Poppy’s voice is tight, and I already know what she’s thinking. She’d have to run the bar without me if I left.

The Crone taps her staff once, and the sound echoes like a closing door. “Isolation clarifies the heart. Distance strips away pretense.”

Murmurs continue to rise.

The Mother continues, gentle as a lullaby. “It is quite unusual, but many of our applicants this year are repeat contestants, and we wanted to provide a new way to experience the Festival, face challenges with their match, and choose, again and again, whether to remain.”

The Maiden tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “And because it was unexpected, and such intimacy and spontaneity are not for everyone, any who wish to withdraw may do so now without consequence.”

Silence stretches on, and I exhale a laugh. “A month on a private island?” I mutter, mostly to myself, but I know Poppy can hear me. “I’ll need to reassess the packing situation.” I haven’t had a vacation in years.

The Crone’s gaze snaps to me, as if she heard me from a hundred yards away, her thin smile carving her face. “Do not mistake refuge for escape, warrior.”

I grin wider, all sunshine and swagger, as the eyes of the crowd snap to me. “Wasn’t planning to. Just sounds like a hell of a vacation.”

The Moirai exchange a look.

The Mother’s voice softens, almost fondly. “Then step forward, child of chance. Let’s see if your vacation will be granted to you.”

And so the Festival of Fates begins.

Chapter Four

POPPY

Holy hobgoblins. I cannot believe Riven just mouthed off to the Moirai in front of thousands of people. I know he’s built of raw nerve and awful decisions and is dangerously unafraid, but this is beyond the pale.

My face is hot for him. Sweat coats my palms, and my heart races as if I’d been called down in front of the Moirai myself instead of just watching it happen to him.

Riven has been called forward, and the crowd is reacting like spectators at a gladiator match—cheers, whispers, and jealous, appreciative stares follow him as he moves to reach for the fate so many want. The fate I’ve always wanted.

He catches my eye over his shoulder and flashes that infuriating grin. As if saying: Relax. It’s just a silly Festival. He never takes anything seriously.

I can’t see Angora, but I know she’s watching him. Possession already engrained in her spoiled mind. I can imagine her on the other side of the curtain, smile tight, fingers tapping impatiently as he moves with careless confidence through the crowd, rolling his shoulders like this is a party instead of a reckoning.

I make my way through the crowd, trying to keep my eyes on Riven as he swaggers to the Arena of Affection and steps before the velvet curtain that conceals the match the Moirai have selected for him. I know from experience that the floor he stands on is dipped, like a basin, allowing him and his potential match to roll their fated dice toward the other. As long as they score high enough for Fate-blessed compatibility, the curtain will rise and reveal the face of his match. Angora’s perfect, scary face.

From my position in the vast open-air amphitheater, I cannot see his potential match, only Riven’s corded back and thick hair as he reaches for the die and prepares to roll.

He snatches up the glittering magical die. The die that Fate manipulates to do her bidding. Light curls around his wrist like a living thing, snaking up his veiny arm like it’s trying to claim him for its own. It’d have to get in line. I don’t put it past Angora to challenge even Fate itself for the man and life she wants.

He glances back at me, an unconscious tic I’ve seen him do time and time again, like he’s seeking to ground himself. I want to shout that if he were doing the right thing, he wouldn’t need me to reassure him about it. But I can’t. It’s too late.

The crowd presses in, voices overlapping in eager, hungry anticipation. The Moirai sit elevated at the far end of the stage, watching the mortals before them like a particularly entertaining experiment. For them, I suppose it is.

Which irritates me to no end, because in years past, I was their favorite lab rat.