Chapter 18 – Elise
Chapter Eighteen
Elise
The final day in this city arrived with the energy of a long, dramatic curtain call—over it, a little emotional, but determined to go out with flair.
Elise showed up right before lunch for the matinee call time, mildly hungover and unapologetically caffeinated, still sporting a light shimmer of regret from last night’s “we’ll just have one” adventure with Nick.
The faint herbal scent of rosemary clung to her skin from her late-night soak, grounding and sharp.
Under her shirt, the iron nail and rose quartz clinked gently against each other with every step, a soft reminder of the extra armor she carried now.
Around her ankle, the braided cord Cici had sent—woven with soft threads and a tiny crescent moon charm—sat snug and certain.
She’d worn it for days, but today, it felt like part of the shield.
Protection, but make it fashion.
Marcie leaned into the wig room with the desperation of a woman about to face the horrors of company-issued packing kits. “Hey, do you have room in your trunk again? Because I swear if I have to Tetris my contour palettes one more time…”
Elise laughed, setting down her brush. “Bring it by after the evening show—I’ve got you.”
Marcie grinned. “You’re a hero. I’ll drop by before I head out tonight.” She hesitated, then added casually, “You coming to the party tonight? Jen picked out a solid spot. Karaoke and overpriced cocktails. It’ll be fun.”
The question hung in the air. Not just are you coming, but can you handle it this time?
Elise straightened a wig stand, her voice light but sure. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The hours passed in a blur of bobby pins, quick changes, and the soft electric buzz of anticipation.
Something about the final day in a theatre always carried a strange magic: part nostalgia, part relief, part barely-contained chaos.
The energy backstage was kinetic, effervescent. Elise felt it humming in her bones.
Between scenes, the talk was all about tonight’s cast party and the promise of a real break.
Elise was flying out early the next morning—one of the joys of being crew.
She needed to be in the next city a day ahead for load-in, while most of the cast had a buffer day to explore, recover, and roll out at a more leisurely pace.
Jen found her during a lull in the matinee, confirming what Elise already feared—no updates on Ellen.
No clues, no sightings. Just a ghost of a girl who’d vanished without a trace.
A new understudy had been contracted and would be joining them sometime in the next city.
Elise didn’t ask for details. She just nodded and kept pinning.
Meanwhile, the Bennet sisters’ dressing room was its own subplot: an escalating cold war over the affections of Stage Left Steve.
Elise heard about it in snippets while passing through—snide comments, dramatic sighs, one suspiciously slammed foundation compact.
She stayed out of it. Wig corners, unlike love triangles, were Switzerland.
The break between shows had never felt so domestic.
Marco showed up with food, takeout boxes cradled in his arms like sacred offerings, and immediately brightened the dim backstage corridor with his easy smile and effortless charm.
Elise accepted a container with quiet gratitude, perched herself near the wig counter, and resumed curling the damp rain wig from the matinee while the others unwrapped sandwiches and noodles.
The four of them—Elise, Nick, Graham, and Marco—settled into a kind of makeshift green room bubble.
Graham leaned against the wall with his legs stretched out, Nick was curled up next to Marco like a smug cat.
Conversation meandered, skipping between topics as fluidly as scene changes.
Marco was effortlessly funny, the kind of person who laughed with his whole face, and Elise found herself charmed.
More than that, she liked the way he looked at Nick. There was a softness there, something genuine and unguarded. Nick responded in kind, a little more animated, a little less performative. They fit. Maybe imperfectly, maybe temporarily—but there was a spark, and Elise could see it.
She didn’t ask whether they’d talked about what happened next. The show moved on after tonight. Nick would be boarding a plane in two days. Maybe Marco would stay behind. Maybe not. She didn’t pry. Some things you just let sit quietly, like curlers in a wig, waiting to take shape in their own time.
The second bout of preshow hum had settled into its usual rhythm: costumes being zipped, mics tested, stagehands drifting in and out like ghosts themselves.
Elise had a glue brush in one hand and was holding down the lacefront of Sienna’s Kitty wig with the other, while Sienna casually scrolled through TikTok—when Graham strolled into her line of sight like a living Regency romance novel.
She kept her voice casual. “Hair inspection?”
He gave a solemn nod, standing just a bit taller, chin lifted like a soldier reporting for duty. Elise turned to him, tilting her head with mock scrutiny. “Mmm. Looks questionable. Better let me take a closer look.”
Sienna giggled from the wig chair, but Elise didn’t break stride.
She stepped in close—closer than strictly professional—and raised a hand to gently smooth the front of Graham’s hair.
There was nothing wrong with it, of course.
Perfectly tousled. But that didn’t stop her from running her fingers through it anyway, slipping through his hair with deliberate care.
A brush just behind his ear, slow and careful. Pure mischief.
She could feel him watching her, and when her thumb grazed just behind his ear, she caught the flicker—his pupils dilating, his eyes darting down to her lips and back up again, just enough to make her heart skip a beat.
She leaned back, biting back a smile. “All clear. Try not to ruin my masterpiece.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, in a tone that made it very clear he was dreaming of something. As if he knew exactly what had just passed between them. And that it wasn’t over.
She turned back to her wig work, cheeks warm—and caught Sienna’s expression in the mirror.
Mouth slightly agape. Eyebrows somewhere in the rafters.
“That was… whew,” the actress whispered. “I didn’t know ‘hair check’ could be a whole genre. I’d watch that again.”
The final performance passed like a held breath.
No flickering lights. No shadowy figures. No whispers from the wings. Just clean scene changes and crisp cues—the kind of smooth sailing that felt… unnatural.
Elise didn’t trust it.
She moved through her backstage routine on autopilot, waiting for something to crack. This theatre had been too chaotic, too haunted, to let them go quietly.
She wasn’t alone in her unease. Kevin floated near the edge of the wig counter, not speaking, doing his own version of pacing—gliding back and forth like a haunted Roomba with anxiety.
Every time she looked up, he gave her the same look: eyebrows permanently raised, lips pressed tight, ghost-glowering at nothing in particular.
That’s when it hit her.
The rosemary. The iron. The salt. She was basically a walking anti-ghost air freshener.
It must be uncomfortable for him to stay near her like this.
But he hadn’t left.
Not once.
He was keeping watch. Still, after all these years.
Elise swallowed hard and kept working, prepping for the final wig change of the night—the quick change, near the end of the show. Her hands were steady, but a small part of her kept bracing for something. Anything.
The quick change went off without a hitch. Elise barely had time to celebrate before the theatre dipped into darkness and the soft plink-plink of rain began to fall and the fog machines quietly hummed to life.
Cue the swooning.
Lark stepped out into the stage light with the poise of someone who knew this scene made people cry, and Graham followed, entering from the opposite side of the stage—voice like velvet and cheekbones carved by the gods of period drama.
As they launched into their final duet, Elise’s pulse slowed for the first time all day. The nerves, the Specter stress, the pacing ghost—it all faded into the background.
She loved this part.
The music. The drama. The theatrical declaration of eternal love under a fake rain machine.
Elise realized with a small ache that she hadn’t been singing on her own these past few nights. Not since everything got weird. She missed it—her personal late-night ritual. The echo of her voice in an empty theatre. The joy of making something just for herself.
She needed the next city. A reset. A little less murdery energy and a little more musical therapy.
Onstage, the two halves of the bridge set piece met centerstage, right before Darcy and Elizabeth ascended the steps together. The final notes floated through the air, their voices swelling in tandem as the storm of the story reached its resolution.
“I love you, Elizabeth,” Darcy murmured, his voice rich and vulnerable, every syllable soaked in devotion.
They leaned in, foreheads touching, lips nearly brushing. The illusion of the kiss was perfect.
And then, just before the lights began their slow fade, Graham looked past Lark.
Right at Elise.
Their eyes locked for the briefest, breathless moment.
And he winked.
WINKED.
Right as the lights started to dim.
Elise’s mouth parted. Her whole body went a little bit tingly. Was this how those squealing fangirls felt? Was she having a main character moment? Because Mr. Leading Man had just winked at her mid-love confession, and she was going to need a minute.
The post-show energy backstage was electric. Everyone moved with a buzzed urgency, voices overlapping, laughter echoing off the cinder block walls. There was the shared adrenaline of closing night—and the promise of cocktails and karaoke just around the corner.