Page 138 of Specters & Spotlights

Elise tried to deflect the weight of it with a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t even stepped onstage. You might regret those words in about fifteen minutes when you’re sharing a stage with me.”

But he just smiled. “Then I’ll be there. If you stumble, I’ll catch you. If you miss a line, I’ll cover it. We all will. There was a full cast huddle while you were changing. Everyone’s on board. Choreography, blocking, cues—we’ve got it covered. You just focus on the lines and the singing.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “We’ll make sure you shine.”

Relief spread through her like sunlight through fog. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself together until just now. The weight lifted from her shoulders—not gone, but shared.

“Kevin will be there too,” she added, voice a little steadier. “He’ll help.”

“Perfect,” Graham replies, like that settled everything. He offered his hand. “Then come on, Elizabeth Bennet. Let’s get you to your debut.”

They passed through the green room. Lark was still perched on the couch, her ankle iced, phone in hand. She glanced up and flipped the screen toward Elise.

Cici’s face lit up the screen. “You’ve got this, babe. Be brilliant, banish this fucker, don’t die.”

“Solid priorities,” Elise said, her voice hitching on a laugh.

As she turned to go, Lark spoke up, voice dry but unmistakably clear: “Try not to ruin my reputation. Everyone out there still thinks you're me.”

Elise turned back.

Lark gave her a long look… then the barest wink. “And hey—go kick his spectral ass.”

Elise laughed and followed Graham up the stairs—toward the lights, toward the audience, toward whatever came next.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Elise

The lights rose on the Collins’ drawing room, soft golden tones warming the stage like a memory.

Elise stepped into it.

Into Elizabeth’s shoes. Elizabeth’s dress. Elizabeth’s posture.

For one suspended second, the theatre seemed to hold its breath with her. Then the orchestra shifted beneath the silence, and the world narrowed to the boards beneath her feet, the heat of lights on her skin, and the first line waiting in her mouth.

She spoke.

The sound of her own voice surprised her. Clear. Steady. Not hers, not exactly—Elizabeth’s. It echoed through the theatre like it belonged there.

She moved to the settee, unfolding the letter with trembling fingers. Across the stage, Graham stepped into a soft, focused pool of light and began to sing.

His voice carried like wind through an open window. Mr. Darcy’s voice, yes, rich with apology, urgency, and restrained longing—but Elise could hear Graham underneath it. The careful control. The aching sincerity. The man who had spent the last few weeks letting her come closer without ever once demanding that she hurry.

As he sang of Wickham’s betrayal, of Georgiana’s near ruin, Elise kept her eyes on the letter in her hands and willed her breathing to match the tempo of the music instead of the panic ricocheting through her chest.

She had never felt stage lights like this before. Not so hot and so absolute. The spotlight pinned her in place, sweat beginning to bead beneath the wig cap and trickle down the back of her neck.

Then—

“Breathing helps, you know. Preferably in and out, in that order.”

Kevin’s voice slid through the orchestra’s well, dry and amused and achingly familiar.

It was faint. But it was him.

Elise didn’t dare respond. The mic taped to her ribs would pick up even a murmur, and the audience did not need to hear her tell an invisible dead dramaturg that she was trying, thank you very much.