Page 124 of Specters & Spotlights

Somewhere between the phone call and the last scribbled revision, Jen had shifted into full mother-hen mode—efficient, protective, already anticipating the next problem before it could hatch. She worked alongside Graham and Elise all afternoon, making sure every detail was planned and accounted for.

Now Graham found himself in the wig closet with Elise, each of them holding a candle in one hand and a small pocketknife in the other—like this was a perfectly reasonable way to spend an evening in a theatre.

A couple dozen more candles were arranged on the floor between them, lined up with an almost military neatness. Wax shavings and little swirls of pale debris littered the ground around the row, evidence of the last hour: carve, wipe, compare, repeat.

Elise’s phone lay open in her palm, the reference image bright against the dim closet. They leaned over it together, then back to their hands—eyes flicking between the screen and the candle they were working on, both of them concentrating hard enough that the rest of the theatre fell away.

Graham should have found it absurd. He did, in a distant way. But mostly he found himself… steady.

He was content with the closeness. Grateful for it, even. Whatever this thing between them was, whatever it might become, could wait. For now, it was enough to stand beside her, share the same small pool of light, and be useful in a way that mattered.

A soft scuff of shoes sounded in the hallway. Graham and Elise both looked up at the same time.

Lark stood at the wig closet entrance, peering in—still and unreadable, as if she’d been there longer than the single scuff implied. Her hair was pulled back in a way that looked more practical than styled, and she had that faint, travel-worn edge to her, like she’d come straight from the airport.

Of course. She’d been booked on the same flight he’d originally been on, which must have just landed.

Graham felt his jaw tighten before he could stop it.

The last time he’d seen her—really seen her—had been in an alley outside the previous theatre. Her confession. The love spell. The Specter. Kevin’s sacrifice to save Elise.

In his mind it felt like weeks ago, the way trauma stretched time into something unrecognizable. But in his chest it was still sharp. Still new. A fresh wound you couldn’t help probing.

How could she try to use Elise like that?

He kept his face neutral through force of habit, but anger moved under his skin, hot and immediate, begging to be given a voice.

He didn’t give it one. Not yet.

Because they needed her. Because whatever they were about to ask of her, whatever Cici’s instructions required, was a narrow chance for Lark to do something right. A small redemption, maybe. A first step.

And if the spell was going to work, Lark had to be on board.

“Hey,” Lark said softly as she stepped into the doorway. Her eyes went straight to Elise. “You’re okay.”

“We are,” Graham replied before Elise could, his voice even. He didn’t add no thanks to you, but he didn’t particularly bother to hide it, either.

Elise shot him a look—quick, pointed. Not now. Or maybe, try harder.

Right. Fine.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Elise said, inserting herself neatly into the gap Graham had left. “We have a lot to catch you up on.”

Lark moved fully into the closet. Her gaze swept the floor: the line of carved candles, the wax curls, the bags of salt, the bundled herbs. Her eyebrows lifted, one slow notch.

“This is some… complicated shit,” she said.

“Courtesy of Cici,” Elise replied, calm and brisk. “We’ve got a plan, and we’re under a deadline.” She held Lark’s eyes without blinking. “And there’s something important you need to know about your part in the spell.”

Lark studied her for a beat—searching, assessing—like she was trying to find the trap hidden inside the invitation.

Then she nodded once, decision made.

“Tell me everything.”

They did.

Elise walked Lark through it all—Ellen’s phone, Kevin, Myrtle and the girls and the mime, the way the Specter’s presence had hitched a ride into the theatre. Graham filled in the pieces Elise skipped—not because she couldn’t explain them, but because she’d lived them, and sometimes he could see the strain of those experiences in the tightness around her mouth.