Chapter 5 – Elise
Chapter Five
Elise
The curtain kissed the stage with finality, and the theatre exhaled.
Back in her little wig closet sanctuary, Elise assumed her role as the quiet unwinder of magic.
One by one, cast members filtered through for their final transformation of the night—this time, from character back to person.
She moved efficiently, gently lifting pins, rubbing away spirit gum, offering a nod here, a soft joke there.
It was always a funny limbo, this backstage in-between. Talia, cheeks still rosy from her last bow, leaned against the doorframe. “I swear this wig aged me ten years,” she joked as Elise peeled away the curls.
Ed followed, stoic as ever, until Elise handed him a makeup wipe and he broke into a grin. “Cheers, sorceress.”
And Ellen sat silently as Elise worked, the only sound between them the soft clink of pins in her dish.
The wig closet, warm and humming with leftover adrenaline, became a confessional of sorts—actors cycling through in various stages of undress and unwinding. Bits of character clung like glitter: a beauty mark, a perfectly coiffed wave, a whisper of accent in someone’s thank-you.
There was a sacred strangeness to this moment. The air was thick with transformation—not the kind that happened onstage, but something quieter. Truer. These weren’t just costume changes; they were returns. To self. To skin. To the ordinary world.
Soon, they would leave. Not as Colonel Fitzwilliam, or Lydia, or Ensemble Member #3, but as Ed, Talia, and Ellen, their faces half-washed, voices tired, disappearing into streets lined with audience members who would never recognize them.
It felt like a secret only she got to see. This too, was theatre. The invisible magic. The slow, reverent unmaking.
Nick poked his head into the wig closet right as Elise was gently peeling the final Bennet sister wig off Sienna’s head. He had swapped his Regency coat for a sleek navy pea coat, sleek and smug, with his satchel slung across his chest like he was headed somewhere chic and important.
“You survived your first show with us! Doing anything to celebrate?” he grinned.
Elise didn’t answer—she just glanced toward the far counter, where a damp, rain-drenched wig sat in tragic solitude. A small puddle had formed beneath it, like it was weeping for itself.
Nick followed her eyes and winced as if the wig itself had scolded him.
“Ah. Of course. The drowned diva.”
She nodded solemnly. “We’ve got two shows tomorrow, and I’ve got to get both these babies ready.” She gave the wet wig a little pat, like a stoic nurse with a very demanding patient.
Dry, style, set. Only then would they curl like poetry by matinee curtain.
Nick mock-shuddered. “The glamorous life of the theatre.”
Truthfully, she didn’t mind. With wigs like this (human hair, not synthetic), you shouldn’t risk air-drying, unless you wanted to chance waking up to mildew and frizz that no amount of heat tools could fix.
The rain scene demanded realism, and wet synthetic fibers would have clumped and gleamed like cheap tinsel under the stage lights.
These wig twins, at least, had the dignity of a true leading lady. High maintenance, yes. But believable.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t really go in for the post-show debauchery anyway.”
“You say that now,” Nick teased, “but just wait until the closing night karaoke ritual. That’s when the real demons emerge.”
He paused, then leaned casually against the doorframe.
“Honestly, you missed a whole soap opera at the last one. Lark and Ellen broke up mid-party. I was literally holding a tambourine when it happened. And by the third verse of ‘Shallow,’ Lark was lip-locked with Avery from the ensemble like it was Spring Awakening all over again.”
Elise raised a brow. “Fast rebound.”
“Whiplash rebound,” Nick said, hands raised. “I’m not judging. Just saying—you’ve got to pace yourself with this group.”
She laughed, shaking her head as she reached for the blow dryer.
Nick backed out of the doorway with a wink. “Good luck with your soggy starlets. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
The last visitor to the wig closet was Lark herself. She slipped in right as Elise was coaxing the finale wig into something resembling dry civility. She was out of costume now, dressed in jeans and a soft-looking sweater, her stage makeup wiped away. Elise glanced up instinctively... curious.
Even without the glitter and lashes, Lark was striking. One of those rare people who carried beauty like it was just another natural feature, like height or freckles. No spotlight required.
She settled into the wig chair with practiced ease, like someone used to being attended to. Elise put the dryer down and stepped behind her to begin unpinning the updo wig.
“I saw you watching the last scene from the wings,” Lark said, her voice a notch above a whisper, but full of intention. “What did you think?”
Elise worked a pin free from the base of the wig. “It’s always been my favorite song. The rain, the fog... it feels like something bigger than a show. Like you’re stepping into a dream.”
Lark didn’t respond right away, but Elise could see her smile in the mirror. Elise lifted the wig from her head with care and turned, expecting Lark to rise, to join the stream of performers dissolving back into the city.
Instead, Lark stayed where she was. She peeled off her wig cap, fingers slipping into her own hair as she began unwinding the lattice of pins with quiet purpose.
It surprised Elise. This moment—the intimacy of undoing hair, of letting the performance fall away—was usually kept in the sanctuary of dressing rooms. But Lark lingered, as if this small space, filled with drying curls and faint traces of hairspray, held something she needed tonight.
Their eyes met in the mirror. Lark didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. But she watched Elise like someone waiting for a sign.
Elise looked back, uncertain. She didn’t mention the breakup, though Nick’s voice echoed faintly in the back of her mind. Lark, post-party, already in someone else’s arms.
She didn’t seem broken.
And yet… something about the way she lingered here, in this too-warm room full of wigs and half-washed makeup, felt less like vanity and more like a bid for connection.
Elise turned away, fingers finding the blow dryer again. The moment passed with the steady hum of warm air.
“Aha! There you are.”
The voice came from the doorway, confident and warm. Elise turned instinctively, meeting Graham’s gaze right as he stepped into the room. His eyes flicked between her and Lark, but seemed to linger on her—just long enough to make her blink.
She glanced at Lark. Surely he was here for her. Right?
But Lark didn’t even look up. She answered like she already knew the script. “Can it wait until tomorrow? Whatever gesture or line you’re obsessing over will still be there in the morning.” The words were teasing, but the edge was undeniable.
There was a pause—only a flicker of hesitation from Graham—as if that wasn’t what he’d meant at all. Elise watched him recalibrate in real time.
“Right,” he said at last, smile faint. “Tomorrow, then.”
And then, with that same easy energy, he turned back to Elise. “What about you? Did you survive your trial by fire?”
The question caught her off guard. Not because it was kind… but because he’d noticed at all.
“I—” she began, before Lark’s voice arrived like a sudden shift in lighting.
“Graham, leave her alone. She’s not your type.”
The room seemed to hold its breath for a beat too long.
Elise looked between them, startled. What does that mean?
Graham’s eyes narrowed. Something like understanding bloomed behind them, private and amused.
“Easy, Lark,” he said gently. “No need to bite my head off.”
He nodded once toward Elise, not quite a bow, but something close.
“Bye, you two.”
And with that, he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him like a final line.
Elise stared at the spot where he’d been. She wasn’t sure if she’d just witnessed a conversation… or something else.
Lark, unfazed, went back to her pin curls. She worked methodically, her fingers removing bobby pins with a kind of casual elegance that Elise couldn’t help but admire. Each one clinked softly onto the counter, forming a tidy little pile of silver beside the sink.
“I don’t know how they managed last night,” Lark said, not really waiting for a response. “It was chaos. Total chaos. Someone put Frankie’s wig on backward. Backward. I mean, really, what are we doing?”
Elise hummed in acknowledgment, the dryer still buzzing beside her. Heat clung to her skin. In the mirror, her cheeks were pink and slightly damp, her ponytail already betraying its frizz-prone nature. She looked… wilted.
Lark, of course, looked like a shampoo commercial. Her curls gleamed as she fluffed them out, glossy and obedient. Elise caught her own reflection again and gave a quiet sigh. Some had to work for it.
“The old wig mistress—what was her name? Sadie? Sandy?” Lark gave a theatrical shudder. “She always smelled like Estee Lauder and never understood my curl pattern.” A beat. “It’s nice to have someone new.”
Elise looked up just in time to see Lark watching her in the mirror. Not with judgment. Not exactly. It felt more like… assessment.
Then Lark smiled. “You’ll fit in here. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure of it.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Just slid off the chair while smoothing a hand over her curls.
“It helps,” she added, almost offhandedly, “to have someone on your side.”
Elise nodded, unsure what she was agreeing to.
And then, just like that, Lark turned toward the door. She didn’t gather her bobby pins.
She left them, neatly stacked, right on the counter. Deliberate. Delicate. Intentional.
Elise stared after her. “I guess that’s a yes to pin curls tomorrow,” she murmured.
Then she sighed—half-amused, half-exasperated, entirely unsure what kind of story she’d wandered into.
Later in the evening, quiet had settled across the theatre like a blanket, muffling footsteps and softening echoes.