Chapter 3 – Elise
Chapter Three
Elise
A sharp knock jolted Elise—not much, a breath caught in her chest—but enough that the curling iron wobbled in her grip. She steadied it quickly, annoyed at herself. After so much time, she was still flinching. Still wired for something that wasn’t here anymore.
Jen stepped in, jangling a keyring in one hand and a crisp access card in the other. “Thought I’d bring these before the masses descend,” she said, tossing both onto the counter with theatrical flair. “Call time is in less than an hour. Once the cast gets here, it’s chaos. Hope you’re ready.”
Elise, standing amidst the now-tamed wig heads and carefully sorted tools, gave her a soft smile. “I’m ready. It helps, having things in place.”
Jen nodded, eyes drifting to the travel trunk. “Don’t bother unpacking the whole beast. This venue’s a short run—we’re only here four days. Blink and we’re gone.”
Her gaze landed on the tokens Elise had arranged. The dried sprig of lavender leaned like it was on its last legs, and the palo santo stick looked like it had survived one too many wig closets.
Jen gave a knowing nod. “Ah. Lavender, mugwort, and iron. The holy trinity of ‘Please behave, spirits.’ I approve.”
Elise smiled faintly. “They started as a joke. But they make the space feel... calmer.”
“Good instincts,” Jen said, matter-of-fact, before adding on her way out the door: “Stage right wings have been extra weird, especially near the quick change corner. Cold spots. And something’s been untying my shoes.”
And then she was gone, laces flapping slightly.
Elise didn’t react outwardly, but her mind clicked into place. Kevin had mentioned a boy—lingering in the wings, mischievous and small.
“Quick hands, no sense of boundaries,” he muttered now. “Probably trips a dozen actors before lunch.”
That quick comment from Jen tugged at Elise’s memory. The quick-change station was in the stage right wings. She needed to check it before the chaos of pre-show routines swallowed her whole.
She grabbed the freshly styled wig and a tin of hairpins, balancing them in one arm as Kevin fluttered dramatically beside the door.
“I’ll hold down the fort,” he declared, giving her a crisp, two-finger salute. “Should any wigs attempt insurrection, I shall strike swiftly and without mercy.”
“Good,” Elise said, struggling to maintain a deadpan inflection. “Spare no one.”
Navigating the backstage maze was easier now that her mental map was forming. She followed the quiet bustle of the crew, ducked past a wardrobe rack and a half-dismantled rolling flat, and rounded a corner toward stage right.
The quick-change station was tucked behind a stretch of black drape, hidden but efficient. The costume was already there—pressed and waiting—hanging beside a small set of shelves and a mirror. Everything looked the way it should.
Elise glanced around for her tiny, ghostly troublemaker. Nothing yet. Maybe he only came out during showtime.
She let her eyes drift toward the stage. The light crew had begun their first pre-show checks, throwing golden washes across the floorboards. From here, she could barely make out one of the show’s signature pieces: the bridge.
It loomed in the wings, half in shadow, waiting for its cue. Painted wrought iron and faux stone arches framed its silhouette—a romantic illusion that came apart in two enormous rolling segments. Up close, the seams were visible. But from the house? It looked like magic.
It was exactly like the world she’d known with the First National… but refracted, somehow. Same bridge. Same cues. Same show. And yet…
Even as she lingered at the edge of the wings, she felt it. A rhythm stirring beneath it all. A quiet hum, a sense of something about to shift.
She adjusted her grip on the wig in her hand and stepped back into motion.
The hour before curtain was always its own kind of theatre. A symphony of pins clicking, hairspray misting, nerves tightening like drawstrings. Once the curtain rose, Elise’s job became more maintenance than miracle—unless someone ripped out a hairpiece or lost a wig mid-spin.
But this part—the hustle before curtain, the careful preparation, the quiet magic of turning foam heads into Regency aristocrats—this was where Elise came alive.
Her hands knew every curl by instinct, every part line like muscle memory.
She could coax a wig into perfection faster than most people finish their vocal warmups, and there was something sacred in that ritual.
In a world that often felt like it demanded too much, this was the one place where she gave freely, completely, and always knew exactly what to do.
When she stepped back into the wig closet, someone was already there, unloading a small basket of wig caps.
She had smooth, dark skin, fabulous knotless braids pulled into a low bun, and a presence that immediately calmed the room—except for Kevin, who was very obviously sizing her up with his usual ghostly scrutiny.
“Oh, thank goodness,” the woman said, with a tired kind of cheer. Her voice had a soft southern lilt and a smile to match. “After last night, I was terrified I’d have to do a repeat. You’re a sight for sore eyes. Name’s Marcelle, but everyone calls me Marcie.”
“Elise,” she replied with a small smile. “I appreciate you stepping in. I don’t think I’d be much help on the makeup side if the roles were reversed.”
Marcie waved her off. “Please. I was trying to keep the ship afloat. I just started last month, but this gig’s a dream for me.
Pay’s light, but they keep us housed and fed, and I get to live in musical theatre land all day.
Beats slinging foundation at Sephora while grown adults cry about their undertones. ”
Elise smirked—and then caught movement at the doorway. Someone new was waiting right outside, hands folded, posture careful. She already had pin curls tucked neatly under a hair wrap—definitely a cast member, early to her call time.
Marcie noticed too. “Oh! This is Ellen,” she said, waving her over. “She’s our Lizzy understudy.”
Ellen offered a shy, warm smile. Elise returned it, her internal clock ticking down. The pre-show tide was rising, and this room was about to fill with faces, hairpins, and half-finished stories.
As Ellen stepped fully into the room, Elise blinked at the mirror of her own silhouette.
A few inches over five feet, slender, but not slight.
A presence that didn’t need height to command attention.
Her skin was pale as porcelain, and Elise didn’t have to squint to imagine her in the chestnut Elizabeth wig.
With the stage lights behind her and a line like “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire you” drifting across the proscenium—she’d look like a painting come to life.
“I just wanted to get here early,” Ellen said as she moved toward the chair in front of the mirror. “After last night, I wasn’t sure what the plan was. I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Same,” Elise replied with a warm smile.
Marcie gave a nod to both of them. “See you in makeup, Ellen.” She grabbed her kit and slipped out the door.
Ellen sat without needing to be asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her movements were smooth, but Elise caught the glance she tossed toward the hallway—a half-second too long to be casual.
Elise moved automatically, years of repetition making each step feel like muscle memory. First, the wig cap: a stretch and a secure fit over Ellen’s tight pin curls. Her natural hair was a pale sandy blonde, neatly tucked away.
Then, the wig. Elise scanned the labeled heads Nick had lined up, spotting the one tagged with Ellen’s ensemble role.
She gently lifted the wig—a glossy blonde piece—and positioned it carefully over the cap.
Fingers nimble, she anchored it with hairpins, pushing through the wefts to grip the pin curls below.
Last came the spirit gum, tacked gently along the lace front to make it vanish seamlessly into Ellen’s skin.
“I’m glad you come pre-loaded with all the original company’s experience,” Ellen said with a smile as Elise finished. “I can already tell this is going to be an easy fit for you.”
Elise gave a quiet chuckle. “Let’s hope.”
She stepped back, hands brushing lightly against her apron as she studied the finished look. But the warmth that usually followed a job well done didn’t quite settle.
Easy fit, Ellen had said. That’s what Elise wanted to believe—that she could step into this new company like it was just another show, another dressing room, another set of curls to tame.
A new silhouette filled the doorway. Elise glanced up.
And paused.
More accurately, her brain stuttered for half a second as she clocked the stranger’s state of undress: a nude lace bra and matching underwear, worn with the unbothered confidence of someone who’d forgotten clothing was ever meant to be armor.
Not that it was wholly unexpected. Backstage, it was common to find actors in various stages of getting in and out of costume.
Modesty wasn’t a trait theatre people tended to cultivate.
If anything, the opposite was usually true.
Still—this hit different. A total stranger, standing in the doorway like she belonged there, leaving barely anything to the imagination.
Once you got past the near-nudity, she could’ve been Ellen’s mirror image. Same height, similar build, though this woman held herself with a practiced poise—posture like a dancer, chin tilted in quiet command. Not quite regal, but close.
Elise practically shook herself out of her reverie. She didn’t need a name tag to guess: Elizabeth. Or rather, the actress who played her.
There was a brief flicker in Ellen’s expression, as her eyes snapped over to the doorway. Not quite a grimace, but something closed off and flat, like a door being quietly shut.
“Lark Ellison,” Ellen clarified for Elise, tone clipped. “Our leading lady.”
“Charmed,” Lark replied smoothly, eyes already sliding past Ellen to rest on Elise.