Chapter 4 – Elise #3
She shook it off just in time to reach for Lark’s updo wig still on her head, carefully unpinning it and peeling it free. Thankfully, Lark had removed the lace adhesive ahead of time—there were few backstage horrors worse than ripping off a face full of spirit gum.
As she set the wig on an empty foam head, the costume tech popped the snaps on Lark’s new dress like a pro and reached for the next wig without missing a beat.
It was practically choreography—one-two-three, dress-snap-wig—and Elise found herself falling right into step.
There was a rhythm to it, an elegance even in the frenzy.
And still, from the edges of the curtain, the boy remained.
Unblinking.
Elise said a silent goodbye to the beautiful curls as she took the wig from the costume tech and slid it gently over Lark’s head. Lark braced it with practiced fingers, eyes forward—serene, unshakable.
But this serenity had a short shelf life.
The temperature dipped. Elise’s breath caught.
From the edge of her vision, movement flickered, fast and wrong. The boy wasn’t behind the curtain anymore. He was kneeling beside her now, his small hands reaching, gleeful, for the laces of her boot.
She flinched, barely, and forced a shaky laugh as she whispered, “You’re trying to make me fall head over heels, aren’t you?”
The words tumbled out before she could stop them. They were meant for the ghost.
But Lark startled slightly, catching Elise’s eye in the half-shadow. There was a flicker of confusion… maybe even something like surprise.
Elise’s cheeks burned. Oh god. That sounded flirty. Or threatening. Or both.
Not that she had time to explain. The wig still needed settling. The part wasn’t straight. There were flyaways. There was a ghost boy at her feet.
Lark’s gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary. Then she faced forward again, stepping into the new shoes set in front of her—and winced.
“Still wet,” Lark muttered, soft and resigned.
Elise didn’t answer—there wasn’t time, and there was nothing to be done. Some shoes never seemed to dry, no matter how many towels or overnight fans you threw at them.
Lark gave a practiced roll of her shoulders, drawing in a breath as if slipping into character along with the dress. Then she was gone, vanishing into the glow of the wings, her silhouette swallowed by the lights.
Elise let herself exhale. The tension slid from her shoulders like a shawl she’d been wearing since call time.
She stayed where she was. Partly because she needed to reverse the wig change for curtain call in a few minutes. Mostly because this next scene was her favorite. A hush settled over the wings. The first notes of the upcoming duet—“You Must Know I Love You”—curled through the wings like smoke.
Then—cool air, brushing her ankle.
She looked down.
Her shoelaces—once tightly double-knotted—now hung loose and unraveled.
Elise didn’t panic. Didn’t stoop to fix them. She just smiled, faint and knowing.
“Nice try, kid,” she murmured.
Fog spilled from the fog machines in the wings, curling low over the stage like breath on a mirror.
From opposite sides, two towering bridge segments began to roll inward, creaking almost imperceptibly beneath the rising music.
They edged closer, an elegant inevitability, until they met center stage, forming one sweeping arch.
And then…
Rain.
It spilled from the rafters like silver ribbons, catching the light and bending time. A choreographed downpour that somehow still managed to feel spontaneous.
Onstage, Elizabeth and Darcy drifted toward each other, hesitant and spellbound.
The music swelled.
This time, Elise heard it with nothing in between—no crackle of backstage monitors, no tinny speaker hum. Just voices.
Graham, low and certain.
Lark, clear and luminous and unafraid.
Elise shivered.
She would never get used to this.
From her sliver of space in the wings, she watched them rise—now atop the joined bridge, framed in falling rain.
Lark’s curls gleamed beneath the stage lights. Graham moved with that perfect combination of purpose and poise.
They hit their mark at center stage, alone atop the bridge. Fog coiled at their feet, the storm a hush around them.
The music stilled.
One heartbeat.
Two.
“I love you, Elizabeth.”
Elise mouthed the words with him. She always did. A whispered ritual, tucked behind the velvet wing.
She smiled. Here it came. The kiss. The exhale. The bow on the story.
Except—
Elise blinked. From her vantage point, she could see it all: their faces tilted, their eyes fluttered shut, the choreography of longing. But…their lips never actually touched.
It was smooth, practiced. To the audience, it would look like perfection. The illusion was airtight. But Elise had seen hundreds of onstage kisses. She knew the difference between surrender and simulation.
Huh.
She watched them hold the pose for a moment—just enough to make it feel true—before breaking apart on cue, and sweeping offstage as the curtain dropped and the final musical notes swelled.
Back in the dark, Elise tilted her head. Her last company always had the leads go for the full kiss. She wondered if this was a director's choice. A stylistic thing. Or maybe one of the leads wasn’t a fan of shared spit.
She didn’t judge. But she was curious.