Page 74 of Specters & Spotlights

Elise turned back to him with a mischievous smile, like she’d just remembered she was supposed to include him in the situation. “Graham, meet Kevin,” she said, cheerfully gesturing toward thin air. “My resident ghost, reality TV enthusiast, and romance commentator. He loves a dramatic arc.”

Graham blinked. Once. Then, because his brain refused to supply anything better, he lifted his hand a few inches.

“Do I… wave?”

This was absurd. This was weird. And somehow—because Elise was calm, because Elise was smiling—it still felt… safe.

Elise’s grin widened. “Can’t hurt.”

Elise’s gaze slid slightly to the side, unfocusing in that subtle way—like she was listening to someone just out of frame. Graham stayed very still, watching her face more than the room, trying not to look like a man bracing for a jump scare.

Elise pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. “Kevin would like you to know that Mr. Darcy’s waistcoat in Act Two is historically inaccurate,” she said, solemn as a priest delivering bad news. “In 1813, gentlemen’s vests wouldn’t have featured metal buttons. He’s been loudly offended about it for months.”

Graham’s brain, traitorous and immediate, supplied the exact waistcoat. The pale yellow one. The one with the shiny buttons that caught the light in a way he found faintly obscene.

He’d argued with the costume department about it more than once. Not about the buttons—he hadn’t noticed the buttons—but about the color. Darcy, in Graham’s mind, would not deign to wear something that looked like it had been pulled from a spring picnic. Austen hadn’t described the color of his waistcoats, true, but that was beside the point: Darcy should be a dark palette man. Reserved. Controlled. He would not be dressed like a lemon tart.

This was not the moment to bring any of that up.

He filed the information away anyway—another piece of ammunition for an argument he would absolutely rehash with the head costume mistress later. Graham let a smile pull at his mouth.

“That is,” he said carefully, “an extremely specific opinion.”

Elise gave a helpless shrug. “He was a dramaturg. It’s kind of his thing.”

She finished finger-curling the last handsome wave and placed Nick’s wet Darcy wig into the dryer—a tight fit beside Elizabeth’s. Then she stepped back like she’d set something delicate in motion, like she was putting a spell to rest. The lid latched with a soft click, and a gentle whir filled the room, steady as white noise.

He’d been waiting for an opening all night—and now, with the dryer humming and her hands finally still, there was a narrow window where he could either take a step forward or retreat back into his usual distance. He cleared his throat.

“Looks like you’re off-duty,” he said, aiming for casual and praying it landed that way.

Elise turned, brows lifting as if she were surprised he’d found the courage to keep going. Or maybe he was projecting.

“I know it’s late, but…” He forced himself not to over-explain, not to apologize for asking, not to make it sound like a joke. “Want to grab a drink? Just one.” His mouth twitched, trying for something lighter. “I promise I won’t keep you out too late.”

There was a beat—so short it was barely there—and then Elise’s smile bloomed, slow and genuine.

Relief hit him like a wave, bright and immediate. He felt almost foolish with how quickly elation rushed in.

Yes. She was going to say yes.

Elise’s smile was still there, just beginning to form into an answer—when something buzzed loudly from across the dressing room. The sound pulsed once, then again.

Elise’s gaze snapped in its direction, toward the costume rack. Whatever warmth had been on her face drained away. Her expression fell into something sharper, more alert, like a stage manager clocking a problem before anyone else realized there was one.

Graham’s stomach tightened. What had just happened? What had she noticed that he hadn’t?

Her hands moved without her seeming to notice. She started wringing them, thumb sweeping over the backs of her hands in a slow, unconscious motion—right over the faint lines of the pentacle tattoos there, as if she were trying to soothe something under her skin.

He wondered, absurdly, if she knew she did that.

Elise glanced back at him—quick, searching—as if she was checking whether he’d heard it too. Whether this was real in the shared world, or only in hers.

“It’s not me,” Graham said immediately. He fished his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen anyway, just to be sure. Blank. Silent.

Elise moved first.

Slowly, deliberately, she started toward the costume rack—past him, close enough that he caught the faint, clean scent of whatever she used to tame flyaways. Graham fell in behind her without thinking. Something in the room had shifted, and it wasn’t just the buzzing sound. Elise’s whole body had gone taut. Fight or flight.