Chapter 4 – Elise #2
Elise blinked at the empty doorway, uncertain whether she needed a fan, a glass of water, or another snack.
Kevin, lounging on a shelf with his arms crossed, gave a theatrical sniff. “Wonderful. Tall, charming, and his hair glows like it’s been blessed. Honestly, what’s left for the rest of us?”
Act Two didn’t believe in idle hands. The second the curtain rose, the wig closet became a living thing—its rhythm dictated by entrances and exits, transformations and fleeting identities. Elise barely had time to breathe between hairlines and spirit gum.
But unlike the whirlwind of pre-show chaos, this kind of busy left room for her brain to wander. Her fingers worked on instinct—cap, lace, pin, glue—while her ears soaked in the show.
She could track the plot by soundtrack alone: the crackle of Darcy’s solo during “The Letter,” the hush of strings that signaled “Pemberley.” When Elizabeth’s ballad began, Elise froze—just for a breath—as the soft, searching notes filtered in through the backstage speakers.
Then came the high note. The high note.
Lark nailed it: clean, powerful, heartbreakingly sincere.
Elise couldn’t help but grin, impressed despite herself. Not many could land that note, she knew all too well.
“Alright, fine,” Elise muttered under her breath, reaching for the next wig. “She can sing.”
Kevin arched an eyebrow from the corner. “Dangerous words. Next thing you know, you’ll be swooning over her.”
Elise snorted. “Let’s not get carried away.”
Still, the song lingered as she worked. This show was a machine and tonight, it ran like magic.
The melody came again what seemed like a short time later—familiar and inevitable. A softened echo of the earlier ballad, carried not on lyrics this time but on memory. The orchestra’s reprise crept in beneath the dialogue and threaded its way backstage.
Elise listened for it. It was her cue, her call to motion.
Time to leave the wig closet.
She double-checked the pins in her apron pocket, scooped up the curly masterpiece she’d styled with loving precision earlier that afternoon, and offered a silent plea to the universe: Please let this go smoothly.
Only one quick change required a wig in this production. Just one. But it was enough to earn its place in her mental hall of fame—fast, frantic, and uncomfortably close to the wing curtains. A precarious ballet of snaps and pins.
She silently kicked herself for not formally introducing herself to the wardrobe crew when she had the chance. A dry run would’ve been smart. But here they were, hurtling toward the moment with no rehearsal, just muscle memory and mutual trust.
Too late for second-guessing. This was theatre, after all.
The hallway felt longer than it should. She stepped into it, the hum of the show pressing in from all sides—shadows in headsets whispering cues, gaffer tape underfoot, distant dialogue folding into strings.
She glanced down at the wig in her hands. Let’s dance, she thought.
Elise crept up the sloped ramp in the dark to stage right, where the hum of the orchestra floated right behind the velvet.
A costume tech was already stationed at the quick change spot, arms outstretched with a half-unbuttoned gown fluttering between them.
The fabric glowed faintly under the red backstage lighting.
They exchanged a quiet nod.
“Thank god you’re here,” the tech whispered. “Last night, we nearly missed Lark’s entrance. Full-on chaos.”
Elise offered a sympathetic wince, but her attention snagged elsewhere.
The blackout curtain behind them—heavy, dark, and motionless just a second ago—was now swaying softly. Not dramatically. Just slightly. Just enough.
It rippled again, like breath caught on fabric. The pentacle tattoos on the back of her hands tingled slightly.
“Weird, right?” the tech said, noticing her stare. “That curtain always moves. Even when the AC is off. We’ve stopped questioning it.”
Before Elise could reply, the curtain shifted again, and this time a face peeked out.
A boy. This must be the one Kevin mentioned earlier. Ten, maybe, wearing saddle shoes and high-waisted slacks, with a pageboy cap that had no business being in the twenty-first century.
Elise froze, just for a breath. He tilted his head, studying her with the focused curiosity of someone who knew they’d been seen.
She forced herself to stay still, composed.
Right as Elise locked eyes with the boy—who continued to peer from behind the curtain like a nosy little usher from another era—Lark barreled offstage like a comet trailing silk.
“Coming through!” she hissed, already tugging at the snaps down her bodice.
By the time she reached them, her costume was a memory—slip-clad and unbothered, she flung the discarded dress onto the floor without so much as a backward glance and thrust her arms into the next one like a NASCAR driver hitting a pit stop.
Elise blinked, still halfway in ghostland. The boy hadn’t moved. He remained watching the scene with wide, fascinated eyes.