Chapter 3 – Elise #2
Ellen didn’t linger. She gave Elise a nod, polite but quick, and slipped through the door like she couldn’t leave fast enough.
The air left behind felt charged—the kind of silence that hummed after an argument no one will admit to having.
Elise turned to face Lark and offered a tentative smile.
“I’m Elise. I come bearing bobby pins and the power to make bad hair days disappear.
” She dipped into a mock-curtsy, light and theatrical.
Kevin, floating idly near the wigs, gave an exaggerated yawn. “Bit on the nose,” he muttered, mostly to himself. But his eyes were squinting in scrutiny at Lark—clearly taking her measure.
Elise ignored him. Barely.
Lark stepped forward at last, her expression unreadable. “So you’re the cavalry,” she said, not quite smiling. “Promising start.”
She looked Elise over—once, then again—not unkindly, but with the deliberate attention of someone trying to decide if the new hire was a threat, a tool, or something else entirely. It was an appraisal.
Something about it made Elise’s spine stiffen, just slightly. She held her ground, meeting Lark’s gaze with quiet curiosity, willing herself not to let her eyes wander—or, worse, let her noticing be noticed.
Because Lark was stunning in a way Elise didn’t have to choose to register.
Elise forced her attention back to Lark’s eyes.
A fraction too late.
Lark’s mouth curved, almost imperceptibly, like she’d just gotten the confirmation she’d been aiming for. Like she’d seen the tell Elise hadn’t meant to show.
“Well,” Elise said lightly, “I do try to exceed expectations.”
Lark’s lips curved a fraction more. “Good. I like that.”
Behind her, Kevin let out an amused hum. “You’re appreciating,” Kevin murmured. “Loudly.”
Elise allowed her attention to shift to an area of strictly professional interest: Lark’s chestnut-brown hair was loose, freshly blown out and curled under at the ends. It looked great, sure, but… not show-ready.
“Your hair’s down,” she said, keeping her tone light, observational. “Did you just come from somewhere? Or—?”
Lark arched an eyebrow, eyes cool and unreadable. She settled into the chair with practiced ease. “The wig mistress always does my pin curls,” she said, each word delicately clipped. “I don’t do them myself. Surely someone already told you that?”
Elise hesitated. “Every show?” she asked. “That must’ve… been a tight turnaround. Especially during pre-show call.” She usually asked folks to come with their pin curls already set. It helped keep the chair moving quickly.
Lark folded her arms loosely. “I’m here fifteen minutes before call, aren’t I? That should be enough. You’ll do a great job, I’m sure of it.”
Elise offered a small, polite smile, but something prickled in her chest. Not annoyance exactly, more the strain of fitting into a rhythm she hadn’t rehearsed.
From the corner, Kevin made a low, theatrical guffaw. “Ah, the prima donna has arrived—and expects applause before the overture.”
Elise didn’t nod, but her lips pressed into a line. She’d seen this type before. Not mean, exactly. Just... used to being the sun everyone orbited.
“Well,” she said gently, picking up her comb, “let’s make the most of our fifteen minutes, then.”
Elise was reaching for the wig cap, the last pin curl tucked neatly in place, when the door cracked open again and in swept Nick, carrying the exact air of someone who meant to arrive a minute sooner.
He stopped short. “Ah,” he said with a theatrical grimace. “Lovely Lark. And I see introductions have been made without me. Tragic.”
Lark looked over her shoulder. “You’re still calling me that?”
Nick gave a helpless shrug, stepping into the room like it was a spotlight. “Well, you are lovely. And you’re Lark. My alliterative options are limited.”
Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he gestured toward Elise. “But more importantly—you’ve now met my Elise.”
Something flickered across Lark’s face—a quick glance at Elise, then back to Nick. Her brow furrowed for a moment. Not jealousy, exactly. More… recalibration. As if Lark were reassessing the map of backstage dynamics. Elise couldn’t quite tell what box she’d just been filed into.
Nick, of course, steamrolled right through it.
“She and I go way back. She's the only person who has ever helped me salvage a quick change while holding a donut in her mouth and a coffee in one hand. There’s no one I’d rather have yelling at me to stop fidgeting while she’s gluing down lace.
” He gave Lark a wink. “So hands off. She’s my backstage soulmate. ”
Kevin, lounging invisibly by the wig shelf, groaned. “I forgot how much this man winks.”
Elise smothered a laugh.
Lark gave a slow smile—more elegant than amused. “Backstage soulmate,” she echoed, eyes flicking back to Elise. “Lucky you.”
Her tone was impossible to read. Elise gave a polite smile in return, but something about it left her ever so slightly off balance. Like missing a downbeat by half a second.
Before she knew it, though, the wig closet had transformed into a revolving door.
First came the Bennet sisters—all four of them at once, like a cheerful tornado.
Bex (Mary) carried a cup of tea she somehow never spilled.
Sienna (Kitty, doubling as Georgiana) hummed the opening number while pinning her wig cap.
Talia (Lydia) told a dramatic story that made everyone laugh, and Romy (Jane) radiated calm like the eye of their little storm.
They looked like they could be family—wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and an uncanny ability to move as a single unit without stepping on each other’s lines or toes.
Elise paused, just for a second, wondering—did “Bennet sisters” still apply?
Bex used they/them pronouns. “Bennet siblings” might be more accurate. She made a mental note to ask Nick.
They talked over each other with the ease of a long-running joke, making room for each other in the chairs and chatting like sisters on and off stage.
Elise fell into a rhythm: wig cap, adjust, secure, spirit gum.
Kevin made a snide remark about familial chaos being more accurate than Austen probably intended.
Nick hovered right inside the door, playing both host and usher, tossing out names as new faces arrived.
Isla Kent swept in next, cool and elegant—the kind of actor whose name Elise had seen printed in more programs than she could count. Her silver-blonde hair was in pin curls and peeking out under a low silk wrap, and she carried herself like a woman used to being the calmest person in any room.
Elise kept her cool, but Isla caught her gaze and gave her a nod—small, knowing. Not condescending. More like: I see you. You’re doing fine.
Elise fitted her for the Mrs. Bennet wig in quiet awe.
Then came the ensemble—a blur of movement and energy.
Avery, Morgan, Rae, Mila—all still pink from warmups, smelling faintly of hairspray.
Elise wasn't sure she caught all their names, but she caught their rhythms, and that was almost better.
A few more dancers followed, quieter, focused, their wigs simpler but no less important.
Bit by bit, bare heads transformed into Austen-era silhouettes. Elise’s hands moved on instinct, each wig its own quiet ritual. The voices blurred, but the work grounded her—steady, familiar.
She quickly caught on to the cadence: the women came first. Good. That was the routine she preferred, and it seemed this company had landed in the same groove without needing to be told.
The second wave brought the men, and with them, a change in tempo.
Next through the door was Casper—warm smile, sandy hair, and the kind of open-hearted energy that practically shouted Mr. Bingley. Elise fitted his wig with practiced ease, even as he chattered to Nick about a costume snafu from rehearsal.
“This man radiates Golden Retriever,” Kevin muttered.
Elise smothered a grin.
Then Frankie Moreau stepped into the room.
Kevin audibly gasped. Elise nearly dropped a pin.
“Elise, that’s Frankie Moreau,” Kevin whispered dramatically, as if she hadn’t already clocked him. “Do you know how many Tonys he’s been robbed of?”
Frankie gave her a gracious nod and sat with quiet poise as she worked. His temples were grayer than the headshots, his features lined in a way that looked distinguished, not weary. He had that rare stage presence that settled the air.
She didn’t quite swoon as she applied Mr. Bennet’s wig to him. But something inside her steadied. Sharing a mirror with Frankie Moreau made this all feel a little more real—like maybe she wasn’t merely pretending to belong.
His voice, when he thanked her, was low and musical—the kind that made audiences lean in.
Jasper came in with a lopsided smile and a pair of earbuds he tugged loose as he sat. Auburn curls stuck out from under his ballcap in defiance of all wig prep logic.
“George Wickham and troublemaker extraordinaire,” Nick whispered helpfully as Elise began the wig cap routine. “Also, Act One ensemble.”
“Wait—no. That’s Casper” Elise glanced sideways at him.
“Nope. Jasper,” he confirmed. “I know, I know. It’s a nightmare.”
“There’s no way I’m going to keep Casper and Jasper straight,” Elise muttered.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nick said with a grin. “They’re not.”
Elise choked on a laugh.
“Here’s my trick,” Nick added, striking a mock-educational pose. “Casper plays Charles. Starts with the same letter. Jasper plays George—starts with the same sound.”
Elise filed it away with silent gratitude. Mnemonics and magic were sometimes the same thing.
As she was pinning Jasper’s wig in place, a familiar face ducked into the room—tall, sharp-featured, and unmistakable.
“Ed!” Elise called, a genuine smile blooming.
He grinned back. “Didn’t expect to see you on this tour,” he said warmly.
“I could say the same,” she replied, stepping back so he could take the seat.
Behind her, Nick called out, “You’re late.”