Page 125 of Specters & Spotlights

Lark absorbed it with unnerving speed. No dramatics. No denial. Just a steady, intent focus. He found himself surprised by how quickly she agreed to the plan. He hoped that trend would continue when they tried to introduce tomorrow’s wildly unreasonable idea to the rest of the company.

The underlying current of the afternoon was wariness.

Now that the Specter’s growing presence had been confirmed—named, understood, and tied to Kevin—everything in the theatre felt slightly tilted. People spoke more softly in the halls. Doors closed with care. Even Jen’s brisk efficiency had a tight edge to it. Graham could feel it in himself too, a quiet, watchful readiness that made him aware of exits and corners and shadows like he’d never been before.

The Specter needed to be contained until the right moment. If it surfaced early—if it broke through when they weren’t ready—it wasn’t just Elise who’d be at risk. It was everyone.

Half of their preparation, Graham realized, wasn’t really preparation at all. It was suppression. Safety. Holding the line.

Lark seemed to understand the mechanics of Cici’s spell with an intuitive ease that made Graham feel, briefly, like the only person in the room without the right language. She asked two questions, made three suggestions, and within minutes she was already rearranging pieces—tightening the plan in small ways that felt practical, not performative.

Helpful, too. Annoyingly.

They called Cici to confirm the “tweaks,” Elise holding the phone between them while Graham tried to follow the thread.

“You’re sure it’s ash, not grave dirt?” Cici asked, voice on speaker.

Lark’s mouth tightened. “Of course I’m sure,” she said, irritation flashing like a blade. “I’m not a”—she cut herself off, substituting something cleaner on instinct—“beginner.”

Cici made a small sound that might’ve been a laugh or a scoff. “Okay, okay. Just checking. You’re positive it’s ash from a spent protective burn?”

“Yes,” Lark said, clipped. “And tell Elise to stop using table salt. It’s fine in a pinch, but if we’re doing this properly⁠—”

Elise rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of relief there too, like having someone else in the room who could carry the weight of knowing made the air easier to breathe.

To Graham, watching them talk shop was… illuminating.

Cici’s warding mechanics—what he’d seen so far—were heavy on candles, runes, careful incantations. Structured. Intentional. Like building a fence board by board.

Lark’s additions were different. Older-feeling, somehow. Less pretty. More… practical. She talked about knots and bindings, about wax seals and bones used as anchors—things that sounded like folklore until you heard the certainty in her voice.

Graham didn’t understand half of it. Maybe more than half.

But he watched Cici and Lark volley terms back and forth—correcting, refining, agreeing—and felt a strange, unsettled appreciation. Even if he didn’t understand the language, he could recognize competence, and that made him feel something close to hope.

Jen reappeared a couple hours later, when the wig closet had started to feel like its own small world. Graham checked his phone out of habit and realized with mild alarm that it was well past dinner.

Jen didn’t bother with a greeting. She stepped in like she owned the place, clipboard energy still humming off her even without the clipboard.

“Alright,” she said briskly. “Rain cue’s been updated. Soundboard’s prepped. I circled back with the crew—we’re all in.”

Elise looked up so fast she nearly nicked her thumb on the knife. “Everyone?”

Graham felt his chest tighten at the surprised edge in her voice—like part of her still couldn’t quite believe people would show up for her, let alone rearrange an entire show around something they couldn’t fully explain.

Jen grinned. “Theatre people live for chaos, remember? Give ’em a mission and a little mystery, and they’ll bend over backwards.”

She held out a brown paper bag like it was a peace offering. “Also—sandwiches. Don’t get crumbs anywhere.” Her eyes flicked pointedly to the floor full of wax shavings. “I know you’re not supposed to eat back here, but I’m not letting you starve.”

At this point, the wig closet looked like a magical disaster zone: wax curls everywhere, open jars of salt, rune charts smudged with fingerprints, and three very tired adults surrounded by candle guts and spell notes like they’d lost a fight with a craft store.

Elise took the paper bag and immediately dug in, pulled out a sandwich, and handed it to Graham before grabbing another for herself. “Jen,” she said, reverent, “you’re a goddess.”

Graham took the sandwich like it might save his life. He was ravenous—and, honestly, grateful for the mundane interruption.

“Obviously,” Jen said, deadpan. Then she pivoted on her heel and vanished down the hall with dramatic flair.

Graham watched Elise take a bite—slow, unguarded—and his mind did something unhelpful with it. He forced his attention back to the sandwich itself. BLT. Avocado. This was fine.