Page 11 of Specters & Spotlights

He stopped short. “Ah,” he said with a theatrical grimace. “Lovely Lark. And I see introductions have been made without me. Tragic.”

Lark looked over her shoulder. “You’re still calling me that?”

Nick gave a helpless shrug, stepping into the room like it was a spotlight. “Well, you are lovely. And you’re Lark. My alliterative options are limited.”

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he gestured toward Elise. “But more importantly—you’ve now met my Elise.”

Something flickered across Lark’s face—a quick glance at Elise, then back to Nick. Her brow furrowed for a moment. Not jealousy, exactly. More… recalibration. As if Lark were reassessing the map of backstage dynamics. Elise couldn’t quite tell what box she’d just been filed into.

Nick, of course, steamrolled right through it. “She and I go way back. She's the only person who has ever helped me salvage a quick change while holding a donut in her mouth and a coffee in one hand. There’s no one I’d rather have yelling at me to stop fidgeting while she’s gluing down lace.” He gave Lark a wink. “So hands off. She’s my backstage soulmate.”

Kevin, lounging invisibly by the wig shelf, groaned. “I forgot how much this man winks.”

Elise smothered a laugh.

Lark gave a slow smile—more elegant than amused. “Backstage soulmate,” she echoed, eyes flicking back to Elise. “Lucky you.”

Her tone was impossible to read. Elise gave a polite smile in return, but something about it left her ever so slightly off balance. Like missing a downbeat by half a second.

Before she knew it, though, the wig closet had transformed into a revolving door.

First came the Bennet sisters—all four of them at once, like a cheerful tornado. Bex (Mary) carried a cup of tea she somehow never spilled. Sienna (Kitty, doubling as Georgiana) hummed the opening number while pinning her wig cap. Talia (Lydia) told a dramatic story that made everyone laugh, and Romy (Jane) radiated calm like the eye of their little storm.

They looked like they could be family—wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and an uncanny ability to move as a single unit without stepping on each other’s lines or toes. Elise paused, just for a second, wondering—did “Bennet sisters” still apply? Bex used they/them pronouns. “Bennet siblings” might be more accurate. She made a mental note to ask Nick.

They talked over each other with the ease of a long-running joke, making room for each other in the chairs and chatting like sisters on and off stage. Elise fell into a rhythm: wig cap, adjust, secure, spirit gum. Kevin made a snide remark about familial chaos being more accurate than Austen probably intended.

Nick hovered right inside the door, playing both host and usher, tossing out names as new faces arrived.

Isla Kent swept in next, cool and elegant—the kind of actor whose name Elise had seen printed in more programs than she could count. Her silver-blonde hair was in pin curls and peeking out under a low silk wrap, and she carried herself like a woman used to being the calmest person in any room.

Elise kept her cool, but Isla caught her gaze and gave her a nod—small, knowing. Not condescending. More like: I see you. You’re doing fine.

Elise fitted her for the Mrs. Bennet wig in quiet awe.

Then came the ensemble—a blur of movement and energy. Avery, Morgan, Rae, Mila—all still pink from warmups, smelling faintly of hairspray. Elise wasn't sure she caught all their names, but she caught their rhythms, and that was almost better. A few more dancers followed, quieter, focused, their wigs simpler but no less important.

Bit by bit, bare heads transformed into Austen-era silhouettes. Elise’s hands moved on instinct, each wig its own quiet ritual. The voices blurred, but the work grounded her—steady, familiar.

She quickly caught on to the cadence: the women came first. Good. That was the routine she preferred, and it seemed this company had landed in the same groove without needing to be told.

The second wave brought the men, and with them, a change in tempo.

Next through the door was Casper—warm smile, sandy hair, and the kind of open-hearted energy that practically shouted Mr. Bingley. Elise fitted his wig with practiced ease, even as he chattered to Nick about a costume snafu from rehearsal.

“This man radiates Golden Retriever,” Kevin muttered.

Elise smothered a grin.

Then Frankie Moreau stepped into the room.

Kevin audibly gasped. Elise nearly dropped a pin.

“Elise, that’s Frankie Moreau,” Kevin whispered dramatically, as if she hadn’t already clocked him. “Do you know how many Tonys he’s been robbed of?”

Frankie gave her a gracious nod and sat with quiet poise as she worked. His temples were grayer than the headshots, his features lined in a way that looked distinguished, not weary. He had that rare stage presence that settled the air.

She didn’t quite swoon as she applied Mr. Bennet’s wig to him. But something inside her steadied. Sharing a mirror with Frankie Moreau made this all feel a little more real—like maybe she wasn’t merely pretending to belong.