Chapter 25 – Elise #2
Graham approached through the half-light of the wings, one cheek gilded by stage glow, the other lost in shadow. He checked her mic, then his, before reaching up to cup her face. His fingers were warm. Grounding.
“You’re doing beautifully,” he breathed, as if afraid even a whisper might break the spell. “Everything’s ready. Every line. Every candle. We’re all in place.”
His thumb brushed once along her cheekbone.
“And I’ve got you.”
His words anchored her more than any charm in her kit.
No enchantment could anchor her like this.
“Thank you,” she whispered back. “I’d be unraveling by now if it weren’t for you.”
“No,” he said, with quiet confidence. “You wouldn’t.”
She wanted, absurdly, to argue with him. To insist that yes, actually, she would be a human puddle by now.
But then a sharp whisper cut through the backstage murmur.
“Where is she?!”
Elise startled, then let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “And that,” she said, squeezing Graham’s hand, “is another costume change calling my name.”
His fingers tightened around hers once before letting go.
“See you on the other side,” he said.
The words landed heavier than either of them intended.
Elise held his gaze for half a second longer, then turned and hurried downstairs.
The next costume was a cleverly altered dress designed for the lightning-fast quick change still to come. It was mostly Velcro and hidden snaps, barely more than a corset, overskirt, and sleeves stitched into suggestion. It only needed to last one scene.
She was halfway through stepping into it when Marcie appeared with a cotton swab and a familiar bottle.
Marcie raised her brows. “You forgot about the spirit gum, didn’t you?”
Elise mouthed a sheepish thank you as Marcie started dabbing remover along the lace at her temples, so the wig could be removed during the upcoming quick change without taking three layers of skin with it.
In the mirror, movement flickered.
At first, she thought it was just stage crew behind her. Then she caught the unmistakable shimmer of the Mirror Triplets, peeking around the vanity like they’re playing hide and seek.
Kevin’s voice drifted past the mirror, muttering something about candle placement and sharpie-ink symbols. Giggles trailed behind him like perfume.
Elise huffed a soft breath. Half-laugh, half-exhale.
Then the prickle of her tattoos sharpened. Not background noise anymore. A warning.
She murmured under her breath, just enough for Kevin to hear if he was still close. “Anything new?”
His voice was faint but steady. “Just flickers. Whispers. Nothing big.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Correct. It was not meant to be.”
Elise’s eyes lifted to the mirror. The triplets had gone still.
Kevin’s voice, when it came again, had lost its teasing edge. “He’s saving it. I can feel it.”
A beat.
“He’s almost fully here”
Elise swallowed.
Of course he was.
They were almost at the end.
She ducked into the wig closet and slipped her hand into the hidden pocket of the last costume she’d just removed. Her fingers closed around the photo—crisp, folded, dread-soaked—and the pocket watch talisman strung on a thin chain.
Elise tucked both items carefully against her palm and headed back upstairs, nerves simmering beneath her skin.
The next scene loomed: a fierce musical showdown with none other than Isla Fisher as Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Just the thought of it made her stomach twist. Nothing like verbally sparring with the most terrifyingly competent woman in the building while also preparing to summon the ghost of your dead ex-boyfriend into a magical trap made of salt, candlelight, and teamwork.
Theatre was so glamorous.
At the top of the stairs, before the lights shifted and the moment overtook her, Elise pressed the pocket watch and the folded photo into Lark’s hands.
She felt the weight leave her fingers but not her mind.
“I need these back,” she whispered. “Right before the finale.”
Lark nodded once and tucked the items away like sacred relics. Her posture was rigid, but focused. Her face was pale beneath the stage makeup, and her injured leg was propped awkwardly to one side, but there was no hesitation in her eyes now.
Cici was still on FaceTime in Lark’s lap, watching everything unfold like she had somehow secured a front-row seat to the backstage apocalypse. Elise caught her eye and gave her a small wave. Cici winked in return.
Jen swept by, clearly in the middle of orchestrating ten things at once, headset wire swinging at her jaw, but paused long enough to flash Elise a double thumbs up.
It helped more than it should.
And then she saw them: the sharp edges of sigils, scrawled in black and red beneath Jen’s sleeves and along her collarbone. Protective magic inked in haste. Marcie had done her job well.
Isla arrived as if summoned, cool, composed, and right on cue. Regal, even in the wings. Velvet draped from her shoulders like armor. She found Elise in the wings and leaned in close. “Ready?” she whispered.
Elise exhaled and nodded. Her heart was pounding, but her spine straightened. There was no turning back now.
The lights rose. The music began.
Elise and Isla stepped into the Bennet drawing room, and the verbal duel commenced.
“You Presume Too Much” cut through the theatre like a blade.
Isla commanded the stage, all righteous fury and surgical precision. Elise found her footing slowly, heart pounding, voice shaky at first. She was supposed to move downstage on the second verse—wait, which direction?
“Go left,” Kevin whispered urgently. “Now stop. Turn back—look at Isla.”
She obeyed.
The audience wouldn’t know the difference, but Elise felt the seams. Isla smoothed over each moment, guiding Elise like a seasoned dance partner without ever breaking character. Every note Elise hit felt like a small victory. Every lyric delivered on time felt like a lifeline.
By the final phrase—Elizabeth’s refusal, clear and defiant—Elise was breathless, and not just from the performance.
The lights dimmed.
The scene ended.
Then the dread returned.
It was time for the finale.