Chapter 8 – Memeber Mayhem
(Yvaine's Point of View)
All I wanted that morning was a honey-dipped roll, a warm cup of lemon tea, and peace.
Instead, fate delivered a man with suspicious cheekbones and the perfume equivalent of a slap to the nose.
"Another delivery?" I asked mid-bite, sticky honey clinging to my fingers like sweet regret.
Eirian didn't look up from his ledgers. "Not unless our couriers have started requesting audiences and wearing enough bergamot oil to fumigate a ballroom."
Now see—that was suspicious.
I squinted out the window. He stood there—dramatic cloak, impractical boots, the kind of face you only get from noble inbreeding or divine fan service. But he wasn't holding a parcel. No crate. No satchel. No humble signature clipboard.
"Scammer," I declared. "He's not even holding a label."
"You created the label system," Eirian murmured. "You literally invented it."
"Yes, and now I expect excellence. A man claiming to be a courier without a tracking number is just a romantic stalker in cosplay."
See, Booze Unbordered wasn't my only empire.
I'd also founded the continent's first semi-reliable, door-to-door logistics service: Y-Mail Express—short for Yvaine-Mail, obviously. We handled scrolls, wine barrels, and emotional baggage, in that order. Screaming ravens delivered urgent letters. Enchanted crates preserved rare teas. We once delivered a single love letter inside a velvet-lined barrel labeled "delicate heart—do not shake."
It was revolutionary. Disruptive. Very loud.
Eirian once got knocked over by a raven carrying a single spoon labeled "URGENT."
So yeah, I knew my deliveries.
And this man?
Not one of mine.
No Y-Mail badge. No enchanted box strapped to his hip. Just overconfidence, cheekbones, and heartbreak shampoo.
"I smell a marriage proposal," I muttered darkly. "And bergamot. Always bergamot."
Eirian didn't even flinch. "Not unless our couriers have started requesting audiences and wearing enough bergamot oil to fumigate a ballroom."
I peeked again. There he was—poised like a character from a second-rate romance novel, one boot forward, bouquet in hand, hair styled to the heavens like it had a personal beef with gravity.
"Aha," I said, licking honey from my thumb. "A memeber."
Eirian blinked. "You mean member."
"Nope," I said, wiggling my brows. "I said what I said. MEMEber, with a capital M."
The man straightened his back as if he sensed our judgment. His cloak flapped in the wind, unnecessarily dramatic, as he practiced it in the mirror with fan effects.
"I request an audience with Lady Yvaine Isolde," he declared, bowing so low he nearly kissed the cobblestones.
"Why do they always say my name like I'm a cursed sword that grants wishes?" I muttered. "Also, what's that cologne? Desperation and mint?"
Eirian's pen snapped. His jaw clenched. That vein near his temple twitched like it wanted to file a complaint.
"Your jaw," I whispered, nudging him. "It's doing the thing again. Is that how you maintained that sharper than a knife kinda jaw, My Love?" I teased him using the special words, My Love, but he seemed unfazed.
"My jaw," he ground out, "is bracing for absurdity."
"Aw. Same," I said, tying my robe sash tighter with all the elegance of a half-awake goblin queen.
I swept out the door like I owned the estate—which I did—but dramatically, like I'd just been summoned by divine comedy.
"Alright, Your Blueshade-ness, MEMEber of the Skittles Gang," I said. "What's the damage?"
The man straightened like he'd been preparing that pose all week. "I'll pretend I didn't hear any absurd banters that might cause you treason since I've come to ask for your hand in marriage."
Eirian didn't move. But I saw him clench his ultra-sharp jaw that even Timothee Cha-cha-cha would be envious together with his fist.
He also didn't speak.
But I could feel the heat radiating from him like he was a tea kettle just before the whistle. I chuckled subtly and faced the man in front of me, the blue ranger of the Power Skittles Ranger.
I threw my arm around his neck like I was claiming the last donut at a bakery. "See this man? This is my soon-to-be husband. So better not anger him. He bites."
Eirian muttered, "I don't bite—"
"Hush. You emotionally bite." The shock was all over his face like he can't believe I turned him into a Twilight Saga feat The Notebook kinda look. But funny enough he unconsciously answered that he doesn't bite. How cute.
Then I whispered, "Just go with it. You've already seen my mismatched sock drawer, the crusty emergency wine under my desk, and that one time I cried at a painting of cheese. You're basically married to the chaos already."
"I regret stopping you from adopting a raccoon last month." With flushed ears, he looked away and I could sense Blue Ranger was staring at us in our own little chaotic raccoon way.
"That raccoon could've been our ring bearer." He immediately turned his head towards me with shock and maybe I can say he looked shy. My... My... what is this, My darling Eirian...
Blue Skittle Ranger looked scandalized. "But… your letters? You said you wanted to see me again! That you'd knit me a scarf!"
Oh no. Not the scarf line.
My brain kicked into search mode like a library with falling shelves. "Wait. Did I sign those as 'Yanyan'?"
"Yes!" he said, glowing like a sunrise with expectations.
I groaned. "Right. Not me. That was my friend. I may have… used her name once. Desperately. While dodging a suitor who thought 'romantic' meant gifting me a taxidermy duck."
"But… isn't that your nickname?"
"Nope. I go by Gremlin, Goblin, or 'Yvaine, No' depending on the hour."
Before I could redirect this matchmaking trainwreck, the man blurted, "Wait! Is your name even real or… or is it like that other name… uh… what was it… Yanyan?"
BOOM.
The manor doors flung open with the velocity of divine judgment.
In strode my brother—the Mad Dog of Isolde himself—looking like a war crime in formalwear. My sister-in-law? A vision of calm except for the fire of "Who upset my baby cousin?" blazing in her gaze.
And trailing behind them—
"Oh." I blinked. "Oh no."
It was her.
Yanyan. The real one. Sweet as cinnamon bread. Eyes like dawn. The kind of beauty that made you feel underdressed emotionally.
She squealed and hugged me. "Yvaine! I'm getting married!"
She looked over at the man. He looked back at her, stunned like a wizard slapped him with a rose.
Yanyan pointed at him. "Who's this?"
"Oh?" I said with a wild grin. "That's your future husband, I suppose? Didn't you hear your name when he shouted it?"
Eirian inhaled. My brother opened his mouth—
"NOPE."
I threw my hands up like I was exorcising chaos. "No questions. Adults talking. Everyone out."
"But—"
"Noooo time!"
I shoved my brother and sister-in-law out like overgrown toddlers. Yanyan skipped after me in a daze, clutching her skirt. Eirian, ever the enabler, quietly closed the door behind us with the grace of a butler sealing a crime scene.
Outside the drawing room, I leaned against the wall, grinning.
"That went well," I said.
Eirian raised a brow. "You just played matchmaker while in your robe and fuzzy socks."
"A legend," I corrected. "A menace. A meme queen."
"I weep for diplomacy."
"And I dance for destiny," I said, twirling with a flour-covered elbow. "Next scandal: tea time."
End of Chapter 8