The wed­ding night, once a daz­zling cel­e­bra­tion of uni­ty and joy, is sud­den­ly plunged into an unset­tling dark­ness as a pow­er out­age sweeps through the mar­quee. The rev­el­ers, caught mid-con­ver­sa­tion and mid-dance, fall silent as the storm out­side inten­si­fies, rat­tling the very fab­ric of the tent. Rain lash­es against the struc­ture, the wind’s howl­ing crescen­dos drown­ing out the ini­tial gasps of sur­prise. The dim glow of flick­er­ing can­dles bare­ly illu­mi­nates the dis­ori­ent­ed guests, cast­ing eerie shad­ows that flick­er across their faces, ampli­fy­ing the grow­ing ten­sion. The laugh­ter and music that had once filled the space are now replaced with hushed mur­murs and uneasy shuf­fling, as though the very essence of the wed­ding night has been snuffed out along with the lights. For a brief moment, the black­out feels like an unin­vit­ed guest, bring­ing with it a sense of dread that no one dares voice aloud.

As the guests shift uncom­fort­ably, the storm out­side pounds against the island with relent­less force, ham­mer­ing the mar­quee with gusts of wind strong enough to make the struc­ture trem­ble. The island’s iso­la­tion, once a charm­ing ele­ment of the wedding’s exclu­siv­i­ty, now feels like a trap, lock­ing them in place with no means of escape until the tem­pest pass­es. Con­ver­sa­tions, whis­pered and uncer­tain, swirl among the atten­dees, spec­u­lat­ing whether this is sim­ply a minor incon­ve­nience or the pre­lude to some­thing far more sin­is­ter. Some joke ner­vous­ly, their laugh­ter brit­tle, but oth­ers are gripped by a grow­ing unease that has lit­tle to do with the weath­er. The wed­ding plan­ner, Aoife, moves swift­ly through the crowd, attempt­ing to reas­sure jit­tery guests while simul­ta­ne­ous­ly scan­ning the area for any sign of dis­rup­tion beyond the storm. The staff work hur­ried­ly to retrieve flash­lights and lanterns, their hur­ried move­ments reflect­ing an unspo­ken con­cern that some­thing is not quite right.

When the pow­er final­ly flick­ers back to life, the mar­quee is bathed once more in warm, gold­en light, yet the moment of relief is fleet­ing. The scene before them, once the epit­o­me of ele­gance and fes­tiv­i­ty, now appears slight­ly off-kil­ter, as though the out­age has exposed an under­cur­rent of dis­or­der that had been lurk­ing just beneath the sur­face. Tables are in dis­ar­ray, aban­doned glass­es and over­turned wine bot­tles lit­ter the floor, their con­tents pool­ing into dark stains on the pris­tine white table­cloths. A pair of sil­ver san­dals lies for­got­ten beneath a chair, and the once-glo­ri­ous wed­ding cake now bears the first marks of a pre­ma­ture slic­ing, its deep red sponge stark against the sur­round­ing mess. The dam­age is sub­tle, but unmistakable—something had shift­ed in the dark­ness, and the return of the lights has done lit­tle to restore the evening’s once-care­free atmos­phere.

Despite efforts to reignite the rev­el­ry, the ten­sion lingers, an unshak­able pres­ence weav­ing its way through the crowd like an invis­i­ble specter. The Irish band, after a moment’s hes­i­ta­tion, resumes play­ing, though their once-live­ly music now feels like a forced attempt to restore nor­mal­cy. Guests war­i­ly step around bro­ken glass, their move­ments mea­sured, their voic­es low­er than before. The storm out­side con­tin­ues to rage, rein­forc­ing the stark real­i­ty that no one can leave the island until the weath­er calms. Some make light of the sit­u­a­tion, rais­ing their glass­es in mock toasts to the unpre­dictable forces of nature, but the forced nature of their humor only high­lights the unease that refus­es to dis­si­pate.

Then, just as the col­lec­tive ten­sion seems to set­tle into an uneasy accep­tance, a sound pierces through the din of the storm—sharp, dis­tinct, and chill­ing­ly unfa­mil­iar. At first, it is dis­missed as the wind, anoth­er burst of vio­lent rain against the mar­quee, or the dis­tant crash of waves against the cliffs. But then it comes again, clear­er this time—a sound that does not belong to the storm. The guests freeze, their con­ver­sa­tions cut short, as a col­lec­tive shiv­er seems to run through the crowd. Eyes dart toward the entrance of the mar­quee, toward the shad­owy edges of the recep­tion area where can­dle­light fails to reach. The moment stretch­es unbear­ably, the once-opu­lent wed­ding now feel­ing like the pro­logue to some­thing far dark­er.

The guests glance at one anoth­er, search­ing for answers, but none are offered. The wed­ding plan­ner, ever the pro­fes­sion­al, attempts to calm the mur­mur­ing crowd, but even she can­not con­ceal the flick­er of uncer­tain­ty in her expres­sion. Some­thing has shift­ed in the atmos­phere, an unspo­ken knowl­edge that the night’s trou­bles are far from over. As the storm howls out­side, rat­tling the tent like a beast demand­ing entry, the cel­e­bra­tion that had once been the pin­na­cle of joy now teeters on the edge of some­thing far more omi­nous. The chap­ter clos­es with an over­whelm­ing sense of antic­i­pa­tion, leav­ing both the char­ac­ters and the read­er with an unset­tling ques­tion: what exact­ly has dis­rupt­ed the night, and is the worst still yet to come?