Chapter 1 – Elise #2
Jen led the way offstage, weaving easily past a stack of prop tables and a rolling rack overflowing with parasols and picnic baskets.
Elise followed, ducking instinctively as a feathered hat wobbled on its perch as she passed.
They reached a narrow ramp that sloped gently downward, the air growing cooler and picking up the universal backstage scent of hairspray, dust, and old wood.
Halfway down the hallway, Jen stopped at a plain black door—the kind that screamed utility closet. Except this one had a pair of googly eyes stuck to it at eye level.
“Classy,” Elise muttered, lifting a brow.
Jen chuckled and pulled out a ring of keys that looked like it belonged to a jailer: oversized and wildly chaotic. Somehow, she plucked the right key without hesitation and jammed it into the lock.
“I’ve got a spare key and card back at my station,” she said, twisting the handle. “I’ll bring it to you in a bit.” Then, almost too casually, she said: “Also? Brace yourself. It’s a mess in here.”
The door swung open with a groan.
Elise peeked in as Jen flipped the light switch. A bulb near the ceiling gave a reluctant buzz, then flickered to life like it decided it didn’t have anywhere better to be. The overheads were soft and warm, casting a golden wash over what could only be described as... chaos.
“Yikes,” Elise murmured.
The trunk in the corner—standard touring issue—was gaping open, its lid crooked like it had been wrestled into submission.
Someone had clearly raided it for the bare essentials and then abandoned the rest mid-panic.
Wigs were strewn across the countertop like dolls after a toddler tantrum.
Foam heads leaned precariously, and the canvas wig blocks—the good ones, the sturdy ones—were holding wigs that had been secured with maybe two T-pins.
Three if someone had been feeling generous.
Most weren’t even on straight.
She stepped inside slowly, heartbeat ticking up. The air smelled faintly of spirit gum and stress. She could tell someone had tried. In a frantic, bless-their-heart kind of way. But no professional would ever leave wigs like this overnight—not if they wanted to be invited back.
Elise set her bag down gently and exhaled, keeping the breath long. Controlled. It didn’t help much.
Her eyes swept the room and felt it instantly—that sinking certainty. Something here was going to break her heart. Her first day, in a new city, in a new theatre, with a whole new company. And of course, someone had already committed a cardinal sin.
She spotted it near the sink.
The wig was resting on a foam head, tilted forward slightly, balancing on a wig stand like it had passed out from embarrassment. The long ends flowed into the basin below. Someone had clearly tried to let it air dry overnight—which would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the fact that it was this wig.
It was beautiful—usually. Long strands of chestnut hair, soft and layered, designed to hold delicate, romantic curls that would catch the light onstage. Around the lace-front hairline, little face-framing swirls had been hand-placed to evoke the elegance of the Regency era.
Or at least, it would’ve looked like that, if it hadn’t been left like a wet rag doll in a dressing room sink.
Beside it, its twin. Just as limp. Just as unstyled.
Elise exhaled slowly. So much for easing into things.
She felt like she’d just walked onstage mid-show with no idea what scene she was in. But she squared her shoulders anyway.
“How long until curtain?” she asked quietly.
Jen followed her gaze to the sink, then winced.
“Four hours. Sorry. We didn’t know what to do with it. We did the best we could.” She hesitated, then added, “I hope you’re as good as they say.”
“I am,” Elise said, already rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s see if that’s good enough.”
Jen gave her a half-smile, backing toward the door. “Alright. I’ll get out of your way.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click, and the silence settled like dust.
Elise exhaled and finally took in the space properly as she shed her coat and donned a black, pocketed apron that had been hanging on the back of the chair.
The walls were painted cinderblock—once white, probably, but now dulled by time and a thousand layers of grime, hairspray residue, and forgotten handprints.
A fading poster was taped crookedly to one wall, bearing an inspirational quote in looping cursive: Success is when preparation meets opportunity.
One corner had curled in on itself. It felt more like a threat than encouragement.
There were no windows. No ventilation worth speaking of. The overhead light hummed, and the faint scent of glue, old coffee, and stress clung to everything.
It really was just a closet. But it was hers now. At least, for the next three days.
Elise set her luggage down in a corner where it looked least likely to maim anyone mid-quick-change. She exhaled and turned back to the sink, where the wig sat, sulking.
This wig had haunted her for two years.
Well, not this one, exactly. But its cousins were living their best chaotic lives with the First National tour. Glossy, demanding creatures that refused to hold a curl when the weather turned or an actor so much as sweated near them.
She popped open the massive trunk and dug through with purpose.
Hairnets. Pin cases. More worn foam heads.
Stacked near the side, she found a pile of Playbills—at least twenty, maybe more—all with the same cover: a couple in period dress, locked in a rain-drenched embrace.
The title read: Pride & Prejudice: The Musical.
The only variation was the name of the theatre beneath the yellow “Playbill” banner.
Charming.
The last wig mistress must’ve been collecting one from each city. Elise hoped this wasn’t the start of a broader trend. She was here to tame wigs, not inherit a hoarder's legacy.
She found what she needed: a three-quarter inch curling iron and a pack of curling papers, each square folded like a tiny parchment napkin. She blocked the wig with practiced care, pinning the lace to the canvas block.
She was elbow-deep in hair clips and sectioning claws when her tattoos started to buzz. Not a soft hello this time—more like incoming.
Her head snapped up. From the center of the mirror, a figure emerged.
Not stepped into view. Emerged… as if the glass had turned to water and he’d simply risen through it. A gloved hand first. Then the brim of a hat. A sleek coat. A cane balanced delicately in one hand.
“Well, well,” he drawled, surveying the wreckage of wigs and curling tools like a critic arriving late to a dress rehearsal. Then, spotting her, he lifted a translucent brow. “Ah, there she is. The reluctant heroine.”