Something Borrowed, Something Feral

River Shaw had photographed enough weddings to know there were only three acceptable reasons for a groom to disappear the day before his ceremony.

Cold feet.

Hot mistress.

Catastrophic suit trousers.

Werewolves, as far as she knew, had never made the list.

Not that she was thinking about werewolves as Melissa attempted to overtake a tractor on a narrow Highland road with all the confidence of a woman who had once coordinated twelve drunk students, three taxis, a weekend away, matching fancy dress, two missing handbags, one crying flatmate, and still got everyone home alive.

“Melissa,” River said, one hand gripping the passenger door handle. “I say this with love. We are going to die behind a tractor.”

“We are not going to die,” Melissa replied, leaning forward over the steering wheel as if that might make the car more aerodynamic. “We are going to arrive on time, professionally refreshed for a castle wedding.”

“You nearly clipped a sheep.”

“That sheep had no road sense.”

“It’s Scotland. I think the sheep have right of way.”

Melissa huffed, her brunette hair twisted up on top of her head in a clip that had given up somewhere around Preston. “I refuse to be intimidated by livestock when I have a bride already on site, with the mother in law and maid of honour en route as we speak and in just over twenty-four hours all the guests, two floral installations and a ceilidh band descending on this castle.”

River looked out of the window, watching the road curl between hills so green they looked painted. Low mist dragged itself across the tops of them, softening the edges of the world. The further north they had driven, the more everything had begun to feel older. Bigger. Quieter in a way that made River aware of every sound; the tyres over damp tarmac, the rattle of camera cases in the boot, the true-crime podcast host currently describing the discovery of a body in an allotment with far too much enthusiasm.

“Can we turn this off?” River asked.

Melissa gasped. “Absolutely not. We’re at the good bit.”

“The good bit is always when someone finds a shoe.”

“That’s called evidence.”

“That’s called making me regret the service station sausage roll.”

Melissa reached over and lowered the volume but didn’t turn it off. “Fine. But when one of us is murdered at a wedding, don’t come crying to me because you missed key investigative techniques.”

“If one of us is murdered at a wedding, I’m fairly sure crying to you won’t be an option.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

Melissa flashed her a grin. It was the kind of grin that had got them both into trouble at university and out of it again. Warm, bright, utterly convinced that whatever disaster lay ahead could be improved by snacks, lipstick, and a plan written on the back of a receipt.

River loved her for it.

They had been friends since college, then university, then the messy years after when everyone else seemed to know what adulthood was supposed to look like. Melissa had discovered she could organise joy. Not stiff, soulless, clipboard joy. Real joy. Nights out where nobody got left behind. Weekends away where everyone had the right train ticket, the right room, the right emergency paracetamol. Birthdays that made people feel known.

River had discovered she preferred standing at the edge of it all, camera in hand, catching the bits people didn’t know they were giving away. A laugh thrown over a shoulder. A hand finding another hand under a table. The exact second before someone realised they were loved.

Somewhere between cheap student bars and borrowed cars, their futures had quietly introduced themselves.

Now Melissa planned weddings with heart, colour, and enough emergency supplies to survive a minor apocalypse.

River photographed them with a cup of tea in one hand, three camera batteries in her pocket, and a professional ability to look calm while internally calculating how long golden hour had left.

Together, they had built their businesses one chaotic celebration at a time.

And now the road had brought them here.

Castle Craigmuir rose out of the Highland landscape like it had been waiting for them.

River sat forward despite herself.

“Bloody hell.”

Melissa slowed the car. They had set off at the crack of dawn from Stockport, determined to make the most of the day before the wedding, and now the sky was much brighter than when they had first started their six-hour road trip north.

The castle stood beyond a sweep of gravel drive, all old stone and narrow windows, with turrets cutting into the pale afternoon sky. Ivy clung to one side like it had been there longer than most countries. Behind it, the hills rolled endless, their peaks smudged by mist. A loch shimmered somewhere below, silver under the clouds, and the trees gathered thick around the grounds as if guarding secrets they had no intention of sharing.

It was ridiculous.

It was dramatic.

It was exactly the sort of place brides pinned to boards titled timeless romance and grooms pretended not to have opinions about until someone mentioned whisky.

Melissa let out a little noise of pure happiness. “Oh, River. Look at it.”

“I am looking.”

“No, properly look. It’s perfect.”

“It’s definitely… castle-y.”

“Castle-y?” Melissa turned to stare at her. “That’s your professional opinion?”

River lifted her camera from the footwell and took a quick shot through the open passenger window.

“Atmospheric. Moody. Slightly threatening. Excellent stonework. Ten out of ten for making people feel underdressed.”

Melissa beamed. “See. Perfect.”

They parked near the front entrance where a man in a tweed waistcoat appeared as if summoned by wealth. He greeted Melissa by name before the car doors were even fully open.

“Miss Hartley. Welcome to Craigmuir.”

Melissa was out of the car instantly, all smiles and warmth, smoothing down her dress as if she hadn’t just threatened a sheep with vehicular dominance.

“Please, call me Melissa. And you must be Angus. Thank you so much for having us. This is River Shaw, our photographer,” Melissa added proudly. “She’ll make the place look even more magical than it already does.”

River gave Angus a polite nod. “No pressure, then.”

“Miss Shaw,” he said, with the grave tone of a man who had possibly never shortened anyone’s name in his life.

“River’s fine.”

He looked as if he might need a moment with that.

Inside, the castle smelled of woodsmoke, beeswax polish, old stone and money. A fire burned in a huge hearth beneath a wall of antlers. Tartan runners dressed the tables in the entrance hall. Wild flower petals and thistles sat in buckets near the base of the staircase.

River lifted her camera and took a frame without thinking.

Click.

A shaft of grey light cut through one of the tall windows, catching dust in the air and making the entire hall look like the beginning of a ghost story.

Melissa was already in wedding mode, but not the terrifying kind. She wasn’t sharp edges and clipboard threats. She was warmth, momentum, and the sort of confidence that made people want to help before they realised they’d been organised. She greeted two members of staff by name, complimented the fireplace flowers, asked after the kitchen timings, and somehow made three people stand straighter without making any of them feel criticised.

That was Melissa’s gift. She didn’t control a room. She charmed it into behaving.

“There they are!”

A woman’s voice rang out from the far side of the hall.

Daniella McKinnon swept towards them in a cream cashmere jumper, dark hair glossy around her shoulders, cheeks pink with excitement. She had the glow of a woman who had slept badly for three nights and was calling it bridal radiance through force of will.

Behind her came Danny.

River recognised him from video calls first by the smile. Easy, handsome, slightly crooked. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair and the sort of friendly face that probably made grandmothers trust him with ladders.

“Melissa!” Daniella pulled her straight into a hug. “You made it.”

“Of course we did.” Melissa hugged her back. “I told you I’d be here before the chair sashes could develop opinions.”

Daniella laughed, then turned to River. “And River. It’s so lovely to finally meet you properly.”

“You too.” River smiled. “You’ve picked a subtle venue.”

“I know. Very understated.”

“Barely noticed it from the road.”

Danny held out a hand. “River, great to meet you. Thanks for coming all this way.”

“That’s all right. I only complained for the last two hours.”

“She did,” Melissa said. “But quietly. Which is growth.”

Danny laughed, but River noticed it didn’t quite settle. His eyes flicked briefly towards the back of the hall, past the staircase, past the flowers, towards a shadowed corridor partly concealed by a carved wooden screen.

It was tiny.

A look and gone.

River noticed tiny for a living.

“You all right?” Daniella asked him, slipping her hand through his arm.

“Yeah.” Danny’s smile came back quickly. “Just thinking about tomorrow.”

Melissa softened. “That’s allowed. It’s a big day. But it’s also going to be gorgeous, calm, and full of people who love you.”

Daniella laughed again, but Danny’s fingers tightened around hers.

Angus cleared his throat. “The couple are ready for the final walk-through whenever you are, Miss Hartley.”

“Perfect.” Melissa clapped her hands once, not loudly, just enough to gather the moment. “Right. Daniella, Danny, let’s take one last wander through the ceremony room, dining hall, and the lower terrace. River, you are technically not needed until tomorrow, which means I expect you to do something restful and not answer emails. Go to the spa. Have a massage. Drink some water.”

“Tea.”

“Water.”

“Tea is wet.”

“River.”

“Fine. I’ll have tea near some water.”

Melissa pointed at her. “I mean it. Rest.”

River raised both hands. “I am leaving. Look at me leaving.”

She backed away, camera still in hand, and lifted it for a casual shot of the four of them in the hall: Melissa bright and animated, Daniella laughing, Danny beside her, Angus formal as a funeral director.

Click.

Danny’s gaze slid away again.

This time towards the corridor.

River lowered the camera.

At the far end, half-hidden in shadow, stood an old door. Black wood. Iron bands. Too heavy-looking for the polished elegance of the rest of the castle.

Something had been carved into the stone lintel above it.

A shape. Maybe a crest.

Maybe a wolf.

Danny had seen it too.

The colour had gone from his face.

“Danny?” Daniella said.

He blinked hard. “Sorry. Just… déjà vu.”

“From a castle you’ve never been to?” River asked before she could stop herself.

Danny looked at her then, properly, and for one strange second his expression shifted. Not guilt. Not exactly fear.

Then he smiled again, too quick and too easy. “Must be the nerves.”

Melissa, already sensing an emotional wobble, touched his arm gently. “Completely normal. Come on. Let’s get this sorted, and then tonight you two can relax with your family and pretend not to care about chair placement.”

“I care about chair placement,” Daniella said.

“I know, sweetheart. That’s why we’re friends.”

They moved off together, Melissa’s voice floating back as she began talking through the order of the day, calm and bubbly and reassuring in the way only she could be.

River stayed where she was for a moment.

The fire cracked behind her.

Somewhere deep in the castle, something gave a low groan. Pipes, probably. Old buildings always sounded alive.

She lifted her camera again and zoomed in on the door.

The carved mark above it was clearer through the lens.

A wolf’s head, weathered by time, its mouth open around what looked like a knot of thorns.

River frowned.

Then her stomach growled.

Intrigue, if that was what this was, could wait until after lunch and a massage.

She turned towards the spa signs and muttered to herself, “Cup of tea first. Ominous wolf door second.”