Chapter 12 – Elise
Chapter Twelve
Elise
The next afternoon buzzed with its own quiet thrill. This evening was Nick’s turn in the spotlight. Scheduled understudy performances were part of the rhythm of the run, and Elise loved the energy they brought: nerves, excitement, a sprinkle of chaos.
She arrived early, knowing Nick and the leads would be called for a pre-show pickup rehearsal. A tall coffee in hand—her reward for a late night of ghost diplomacy—she slipped in through the alley door, through the too-bright fluorescent hallway, and into the familiar warmth of backstage.
As she passed the costume rack, she felt it before she even looked—the shift. The air around it was... still. Not empty, just settled. At peace.
Elise smiled, quietly. “You’re welcome,” she whispered, not expecting a reply.
She set her bag down gently in the wig corner and peeked in on the dryer. The curls had set nicely: no remaining dampness, no frizzed ends. A good omen.
With a few minutes to spare, she slipped out the backstage door and into the wings, pausing right offstage. A hush hung in the house—the kind particular to rehearsals, when even the ghosts seemed to hold their breath.
She padded softly around the side of the stage, past the orchestra pit, and down into the empty audience, settling into a seat about ten rows back. Nick was already in the middle of his scene work, standing confidently under the lights center stage.
He was running the cues for Darcy’s first solo: “Tolerable.” The title always made her grin.
The melody wound around the lyrics like a smirk.
Nick delivered it with a sparkle in his eye and a crispness that made Elise sit a little taller.
He had presence. It was different from Graham’s brooding gravitas, but it worked.
Up front, Lark sat alone in the first row, arms crossed, foot tapping. She was already in pin curls. Elise blinked—so she could do them herself after all. Interesting.
Lark looked tired, though. Not just in the physical sense. There was something worn around her eyes. Elise wondered what had shifted.
She let her gaze drift back to the stage.
The lights painted Nick in golden hues, and for a moment Elise wished she could see the whole show from this vantage point.
Not just the scattered fragments she caught backstage—wig changes, whispered cues, muffled applause—but the full sweep of it, the story told the way it was meant to be.
They moved on to the next number: “Conversation is an Art.” A cleverly tangled trio between Darcy, Elizabeth, and Miss Bingley.
It was sharp and funny, with dialogue layered into melody, each character volleying lines like well-aimed darts.
Every breath, every glance, had to land exactly so.
Elise loved the sharpness of it. The wit. The subtle tension beneath the humor.
She checked her phone. The duet was up next—“Two Left Feet”—Darcy and Elizabeth, circling each other in a musical waltz full of missteps and near-misses, while the rest of the ensemble whirled in perfect precision around them. She hated to miss it, but the wigs weren’t going to apply themselves.
Elise tucked her phone into her pocket and rose quietly from her seat, careful not to let the chair creak.
Rather than return the way she came—up onto the stage and through the wings—she took the aisle to the back of the house and slipped through the door marked for ushers and house staff.
It would take longer, but she didn’t want to break the spell of the scene in progress.
She also didn’t want to go past the whispering wall. But here she was.
The hallway itself was nothing, really—just an odd corridor that curved around the side of the house and reconnected with the backstage hallway.
It branched off the grand front-of-house entrance like a forgotten limb, colder and stiller than the rest of the theatre.
A place you walked faster through without realizing it. A place Elise avoided when she could.
She squared her shoulders and started forward.
The contrast was immediate. Where the rest of the theatre felt grand and humming with rehearsal, this stretch of hallway was dim and quiet, the kind of silence that made her skin crawl.
The hairs on her arms stood up, and her tattoos buzzed faintly beneath her sleeves—an echo of awareness that told her she wasn’t alone.
She held her breath as she passed through. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it helped her feel like the space couldn’t grab hold of her if she moved fast enough.
“Elise…”
The whisper came from behind. Or maybe above. It was hard to place, the way echoes in dreams are hard to place.
“Elise…”
The voice curled under her skin. Familiar. Wrong.
She didn’t stop. Five seconds. That’s all this corridor took to cross. She counted them like beats in a measure.
One-and, two-and, three-and…
“Elise.”
Four-and.
She reached the backstage door and tried the handle. It opened.
Five.
She slipped through with a sigh of relief, the door clicking shut behind her like a seal. Back in the bustle of wigs and warm-ups, the air felt clearer. Safer.
She shook off the sensation and whispered under her breath, “Let’s not do that again.”
The pre-show rhythm kicked in like clockwork—brushes flying, pins clicking, soft chatter filling the corners of the wig room. Elise was in her element.
Nick arrived, half an hour before curtain, buzzing with energy. His eyes were wide, his smile quick.
“House is open,” he announced, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I saw real live people. Sitting. Waiting. For me.”
Elise laughed and motioned for him to sit. “You say that like they didn’t come to see the rest of the cast, too.”
“They’re here for Darcy,” he said solemnly, lowering himself into the chair. “And tonight, I am Darcy.”
Elise raised an eyebrow. “Darcy wouldn’t bounce.”
Nick struck a pose. “Darcy bounces internally.”
“Please stop saying that while I’m trying to glue lace to your forehead,” she said, biting back a grin. “Also, Kevin says good luck.”
Nick blinked. “Kevin... said good luck to me?” His eyes widened with childlike wonder.
“Yep. He approves of your cheekbones.”
“Well, I approve of his taste.”
From the corner, Marcie paused. “Kevin?”
“Her spirit sidekick,” Nick said casually. “Haunts the wig room wherever Elise goes.”
Marcie squinted. “Wait—Kevin’s not the one messing with the women’s bathroom, is he? Second floor. The door keeps slamming shut and won’t open again. Freaked Talia out last night.”
Elise frowned. “That’s definitely not Kevin. He’s more into unsolicited fashion advice and obscure Broadway references.”
Marcie shrugged. “Weird energy around here lately. That’s all I’m saying.”
Elise tucked that into the part of her brain that tracked ghost lore and yellow flags.
As the final calls came over the speakers, she found herself scanning the backstage hallway—mostly out of habit. No Graham popping in for a last-minute hair check. No dry remark about his hair being “a national treasure.” No half-smile just for her.
Wherever he was, she hoped he was enjoying the night off. Still, the quiet felt a little too quiet without him.
The show unfolded like clockwork.
Nick lived every line, every breath of Mr. Darcy, like the part had waited just for him. His steps were sure, his voice steady, his eyes bright with fire. Each time he reappeared backstage, he shimmered with adrenaline—beaming silently at Elise, mouthing how did I do? as he darted past.
She didn’t have to answer. Her smile said it all.
Midway through Act One, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She waited for a quiet moment, then checked it to find a message from Cici.
Cici
Just checking in. Still getting odd energy from your end. Also... envelope?
Elise stared at the screen for a second before replying.
Haven’t opened it yet.
Okay. No pressure.
You’ll know when it’s time.
Elise tucked the phone away, heart a little heavier. Cici always knew when to nudge and when to let go. Still, the envelope waited, folded in the bottom of her luggage.
Intermission arrived in a flurry of costume changes, wig touch-ups, and scattered chaos. Someone had misplaced a prop hat, someone else needed their mic battery swapped, and one of the ensemble members had a minor breakdown over a shoe strap snapping right before a dance number.
Just another Tuesday.
Elise remained steady through the chaos, but after the house lights dimmed for Act Two, she found herself drifting to the backstage area earlier than usual to watch Nick from the wings.
Nick’s voice carried from the stage—low, measured, full of quiet ache. “No One Will Know” was always a subtle number, more confession than anthem, but tonight he was singing the hell out of it. Each note a thread of redemption, weaving Darcy’s sacrifice into something almost tender.
From the wings, the show looked different. Softer. More alive.
She stayed still, entranced.
With a rustle behind her, Gina slid into place for the quick change and gave a little start. “Didn’t expect to see you here already,” she whispered, surprised.
Elise kept her eyes on the stage. “Didn’t want to miss this part.”
In a few minutes, she’d need to sprint back to the wig station during “Yes”—Jane and Bingley’s duet, all swoons and sweetness—but for now, she allowed herself this pause.
Nick stood alone at center stage, and somehow filled it with everything Darcy couldn’t say out loud.
After a moment, she slipped away, boots silent on worn plywood, weaving through cast and crew to reach the green room.
Back in the wig corner, Elise barely looked up as she adjusted a wig here, smoothed a collar there. She lost track of the music for a moment, until she heard her cue again.
Quick change time always had its own kind of rhythm—a little chaotic, a little thrilling. Elise had done this hundreds of times, but it still felt like a dance. Lark rushed into the wings already half-unsnapped, her previous costume sliding off as Elise met her with practiced hands.