Chapter 12 – Elise #2
“Head up,” Elise said gently, promptly unpinning the updo wig that was currently resting on Lark’s head.
It was going smoothly. Until it wasn’t.
In the rush of fabric and movement, Elise caught a glimpse of Lark’s shoulder—and froze. There, just beneath the strap of her chemise, was a bruise. Dark, recent. And shaped unmistakably like a hand.
Four fingers. One thumb.
The sight was a tripwire. For a faint second, Elise wasn’t in the wings anymore.
She was twenty-two again, crouched behind the lighting console in another theatre, wearing her techie blacks, trying to keep her breathing quiet.
The bruise on her arm—hidden, of course—throbbed like it had a voice.
She remembered pressing her fingers to it in the mirror later, tracing the shape.
Wondering if it really was that bad. Wondering if she’d deserved it.
No.
She blinked hard, came back to the present. The dress was already half on, and Lark was looking at her—saw that Elise had seen. Her eyes were wide, but there was no time to speak.
Elise nodded, just once. Message received. Then she snapped back into motion, pulling the wig over Lark’s head, fingers finding the pins with muscle memory. She worked fast, gentle, precise.
“Go,” she whispered, and Lark did, rushing out barely in time for her cue.
Elise stood still, the echo of her own heartbeat loud in her ears.
The rain cue came in right on time, soft and rhythmic, the way it always did in the final scene. From her perch in the wings, Elise leaned slightly forward, watching as Nick and Lark climbed the sweeping staircase of the bridge.
Darcy’s second proposal always had a quiet magic to it—the hush of the house, the trembling chords beneath their voices, the bittersweet edge of the moment. Elise had seen this scene play out so many times she could recite it in her sleep.
Nick delivered the final line: “I love you, Elizabeth.”
And then, unexpectedly, he kissed her.
Not a stage kiss. Not the choreographed, carefully angled kind she’d grown used to seeing. This was a real one. Full-on. No shielding hand, no illusion.
Elise blinked. It wasn’t passionate, exactly, but it was definitely… not staged.
The music swelled, the lights faded, and the curtain dropped.
The applause came quick and loud, but Elise was still curious. That wasn’t the usual routine.
Backstage erupted into its usual flurry of post-finale motion. Lark darted past Elise in a blur, heading straight for the costume rack. Her wet dress was already halfway unzipped by the time she reached her mark.
Nick was right behind her, in the process of shedding his wet outer jacket, still flushed from the stage lights and the final scene. “Sorry!” he said in a rush, voice low and sheepish. “I forgot we don’t do the kiss. Total brain slip.”
“You forgot?” Lark hissed, spinning toward him. “Nick, I hate doing the kiss. It’s not in the blocking for a reason.”
Elise blinked, connecting a few quiet dots—the little mystery she’d been puzzling since her first show with this company.
Why such a pivotal moment was always handled with sleight of hand rather than sincerity.
It had been a boundary. One Lark had drawn—and one Nick, tonight, had accidentally crossed.
But Lark didn’t linger in the frustration. She snapped herself back into her dry dress, let Elise replace her dry updo, and slid on her smile like a mask held in place by stage glue. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter now.”
Nick looked like he wanted to keep apologizing, but thought better of it. A moment later, Lark gave a sharp nod, adjusted her skirts, and extended her arm. They walked together toward the stage, beaming like nothing had happened.
In the distance, Elise heard someone call Nick’s name. A voice from the house, warm and eager. She hoped it was his friend, the one he’d mentioned. She smiled to herself. Hopefully things were looking up for him offstage, too.
Backstage shimmered with post-performance energy, the air thick with laughter, sweat, and residual spotlight glow. Nick moved through it all like a current, catching praise like petals as he passed.
He beamed, all glitter and confidence, but Elise could see the twitch of anticipation beneath it.
“Off to greet your fan club?” she teased, catching him mid-jacket-button.
He shot her a grin. “Fan club of one. And I’m hoping for an encore.”
“Go get him, tiger,” she said, and he tossed her a two-fingered salute as he vanished toward the house.
The backstage energy shifted as the tide thinned.
Elise stayed by her station, methodically placing combs and clips back into their trays. Her fingers were steady, but her mind wasn’t.
In her dressing room, Lark unwound her pin curls in silence. The message was clear—no room for questions. No space for concern.
It could’ve meant nothing. Some actors just preferred quiet after a show. But Elise couldn’t shake the image of that faint, bruise-shaped handprint. The ache of recognition it stirred in her.
She told herself it wasn’t her place. That she didn’t know anything.
But the way her tattoos itched… she wasn’t so sure.
The cast filtered out one by one, their laughter echoing down the hallway as they made their way toward late-night drinks or well-earned sleep. Crew followed soon after, shutting down lights, closing prop trunks, giving casual waves and goodnights.
And then, it was just Elise. Her and the wig.
“It’s you and me again,” she said, half to the wig, half to Kevin. “Let’s make magic.”
The theatre always felt different in this in-between hour. Softer somehow. Like it remembered what had just happened and was still buzzing from it.
Elise sang as she worked, picking up Lark’s solo from Act Two—the solo, the one that always gave her goosebumps when Lark nailed the transition into the final chorus.
She let herself feel it, swaying a bit with the melody, one hand mimicking the choreography, the other guiding her brush through long, luxurious locks. Her voice climbed—confident and clear. The final note rose and rang like it belonged to the rafters.
She held it.
Released.
Silence.
She opened her eyes.
Something was standing in the corner.