Chapter 15 – Elise #2
Elise returned her focus to Lark’s curls, careful not to meet her eyes in the mirror. Lark’s lips parted, then pressed shut again. She looked like she was weighing whether to speak, calculating the risk of the wrong person overhearing.
Elise didn’t push again. If Lark wanted to talk, she would. And when she did, Elise would be ready.
She twisted the last section of Lark’s hair into place, only to realize, of course, she was one bobby pin short. Her supply box sat smugly at the opposite end of the counter. Technically, she could let go of the curl and retrieve one herself. It would take seconds.
But instead, a thought flickered—uninvited, almost amused. She glanced at the mirror. At Lark, still and silent beneath her hands. At the steady hum of backstage life surrounding them.
“Kevin,” she whispered through her teeth, “float me a pin?”
She'd never asked him for anything in front of people before. Not really. Not on purpose. But the thought didn’t feel reckless. It felt… possible. Like maybe, for once, she didn’t have to hide this part of herself.
There was a beat of silence—then a delighted gasp from just over her shoulder.
“Well,” Kevin whispered gleefully, “I thought you’d never ask.”
The air shimmered faintly as a single bobby pin lifted, weightless and slow, carried by something unseen. It hovered with theatrical precision before gently dropping into Elise’s waiting fingers.
She took it without fanfare and secured the curl.
Lark’s mouth opened slightly, her eyes wide. “So it’s true?” she asked. “You can command ghosts?”
Elise gave a half-smile. “It’s not really commanding. I asked nicely. But… yes. I can see them.”
Lark’s expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. But then the moment passed. Her eyes dropped, the light in them dimming as she stood up, murmured her thanks, and melted into the bustle of cast members trickling in.
Kevin floated lazily over to Elise’s shoulder, arms folded. “Whatever’s haunting her?” he said, nodding after her. “It’s not done with her yet.”
The rest of pre-show passed in a blur. Once the full cast arrived, it was the usual steady rhythm: wigs on, bobby pins flying, jokes traded across the counter, and a dozen tiny rituals everyone performed without thinking.
Elise was grateful for the familiar buzz.
It kept her hands busy and her brain quiet.
Before she knew it, the house lights were dimming and the opening number was in full swing.
The backstage world had its own tempo—spun from velvet and sweat, threaded with laughter and low-stakes panic.
Elise moved within it like muscle memory, guiding wigs onto heads, exchanging backstage glances, brushing away stray flyaways as if they were stray thoughts.
Each step felt familiar, grounding. Even with the weight of sleeplessness and shadows, she welcomed the pull of routine.
By the time Act Two neared its end, she was already in the wings—early, tonight, for Lark’s final quick change.
Onstage, Isla Kent and Lark stood in stark opposition under a cross-shaped spill of light, locked in the verbal duel that was “You Presume Too Much.” The confrontation scene always crackled with energy: Lady Catherine cold and commanding, Elizabeth sharp-tongued and defiant, voices overlapping in fiery counterpoint.
But tonight, something in Lark’s performance felt different.
Not wrong, exactly, but dimmed. Her timing was perfect, her voice unwavering, but Elise had watched this duet enough to spot the slippage.
A flicker of hesitation in her stance. A strain behind her eyes.
A sharpness that felt brittle, not bold.
Then the scene ended. The blackout between scenes swallowed the stage, while the orchestra played a transitional reprise. Lark stormed offstage like a storm breaking through curtains, and the quick change began.
Elise sprang into action—wig off, new one on, fingers flying.
The new dress slipped into place and snapped, shoes changed. Elise was ready with two pins between her teeth as the rain wig settled over Lark’s wig cap. And—miracle of miracles—they were a full second ahead of schedule.
It happened all at once.
The backstage lights in the wings snapped on to full brightness—too bright, too sudden, searing the shadows away. Elise flinched, instinctively shielding her eyes.
What the hell?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. The wings had to stay dark during the show—any stray light would spill onto the stage. Ruin the illusion. It wasn’t meant to exist right now.
She looked toward Lark, but Lark was staring past her. Frozen. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Staring—not at Elise—but over her shoulder.
Elise spun.
And there, caught in the flood of the light, was a shadow.
Tall. Vaguely human. Too close. Faint, familiar, and wrong.
It lingered just a second too long, like it hadn’t expected to be seen. One arm stretched forward, like it had been about to—
And then it vanished. Dissolving like smoke under a spotlight.
Elise’s fingers were shaking, but she managed to jam one pin into the rain wig. Just one.
It would have to be enough.
From the stage came the telltale hiss of the fog machines kicking in—low and steady, casting a creeping mist across the floorboards. Crew members started rolling the bridge set into place with practiced precision, as the lights began their slow, moody rise.
Graham, as Darcy, would be entering now from stage left—waiting, watching.
Then the rain cue began: first a hush, then a silvery patter. That meant it was time. Elizabeth’s entrance. Lark’s entrance.
Lark stood frozen for a heartbeat, just past the curtain—her face pale, her breath shallow. Then, like something snapped loose, she turned and rushed onstage. A beat too late.
Elise winced at the delay. There was hesitation in Lark’s voice as she delivered her first line, the faint catch in her breath. But the audience wouldn't know. Not unless they’d seen it as many times as Elise had.
The lights backstage remained stubbornly on. Crew members scrambled, muttering to each other, flipping switches that weren’t responding. Someone tripped over a coil of cable in the confusion. Elise clenched her jaw—there was no way the audience hadn’t noticed by now.
Then, mercifully, the lights snapped off again.
The fog thickened. Onstage, the duo moved upward together, footfalls soft on the wooden bridge, until they reached the center mark—exactly where the lights met and haloed them in soft gold.
From there, the first notes of the final song began: “You must know… I love you.”
A quiet duet. No choreography, no dramatics. Just voices meeting in the space between them, finally aligned.
Elise barely breathed as she listened. It was all muscle memory at this point—lines, lighting, music. But tonight, something in it felt fragile.
She stayed tucked in the wings, heart still pounding. Kevin appeared beside her like a whisper of smoke.
“What was that? Something happened—I missed it!”
Elise didn’t turn her head. Her voice was barely audible. “There was a shadow. The lights came on. It was reaching for us.”
Kevin didn’t respond. Just stood at her side, watching with her. Graham and Lark hit their final notes onstage, voices echoing with emotion. Darcy gathered Elizabeth into his arms for the final line.
“I love you, Elizabeth.”
The stage kiss landed just as the curtain fell, perfectly timed, perfectly rehearsed. The lights dimmed to black.
Elise stayed in the wings, heartbeat echoing like the last swell of music. The moment was beautiful. The moment was brittle. And something in it had cracked.
The show had ended, bows taken, applause faded. One by one, the cast and crew filtered out into the night, voices trailing off down the alley as they left behind the warm hum of the theatre. As usual, Elise stayed behind to reset the rain wig. Kevin lingered too, making himself scarce but present.
Graham didn’t leave.
He hovered by the door, waiting for the bustle to clear, then walked back in with a deliberate calm of a man reporting for a shift he had apparently assigned himself.
“My turn tonight,” he said, leaning against the wall by the wig station.
Elise paused with one hand on the wig block. Even knowing about their ridiculous alternating-nights arrangement, actually seeing him there—unwilling to let her be alone in the dark—did something soft and inconvenient to her chest.
“You really don’t have to do that,” she said.
He shrugged. “Maybe not. But I also don’t mind the excuse to spend more time with you.”
The corner of her mouth twitched as she picked up the hair dryer. “Do you say that to all the girls?”
His expression shifted. “No,” he said evenly. “I don’t.”
She glanced up, intending to nudge him with a teasing smile, but something about the sincerity in his voice stopped her short.
Still, she couldn’t help herself. “Come on,” she said, brushing through the rain wig with practiced ease.
“A guy like you? Leading man, perfect hair, perfect jawline... I’m sure people throw themselves at you constantly. ”
The smirk that flickered across his face didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right. Because that’s all there is to me.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” he said, too quickly. He glanced toward the door, then back. “I’m used to it, really. Just because Graham-the-actor is typecast as the leading man, people assume that Graham-the-person must be like that offstage too.”
There was a pause, heavier than either of them expected.
“This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is actually very far outside my comfort zone.”
Elise switched off the hair dryer and set it down.
Graham was still leaning there, looking maddeningly at ease—and yet, there was something in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly in his pockets, that felt less like aloofness and more like nerves.
Graham glanced up. “Can I say something that’ll probably ruin my mystique?”
Elise arched an eyebrow. “You have a mystique?”