Page 86 of Specters & Spotlights

Lark flinched almost imperceptibly, then gave a tight, practiced smile in the mirror. “I’m fine.”

Elise didn’t buy it. She hesitated, then tried again, a little softer. “You don’t have to be.”

Lark’s jaw flexed. She held Elise’s gaze long enough to make her answer final. “I can handle it.”

There was no malice in her voice. Just certainty. Or the kind of certainty that grows when you're too afraid of what might happen if you admit otherwise.

Before Elise could press, Romy wandered in with a half-eaten protein bar and a raised brow. She paused in the middle of the room, sniffed the air like someone tracking down a forgotten scent, and said, “Is it just me, or does it feel like someone was casting a spell in here?”

A few heads turned. No one answered.

Romy shrugged and moved on, unbothered.

Elise returned her focus to Lark’s curls, careful not to meet her eyes in the mirror. Lark’s lips parted, then pressed shut again. She looked like she was weighing whether to speak, calculating the risk of the wrong person overhearing.

Elise didn’t push again. If Lark wanted to talk, she would. And when she did, Elise would be ready.

She twisted the last section of Lark’s hair into place, only to realize, of course, she was one bobby pin short. Her supply box sat smugly at the opposite end of the counter. Technically, she could let go of the curl and retrieve one herself. It would take seconds.

But instead, a thought flickered—uninvited, almost amused. She glanced at the mirror. At Lark, still and silent beneath her hands. At the steady hum of backstage life surrounding them.

“Kevin,” she whispered through her teeth, “float me a pin?”

She'd never asked him for anything in front of people before. Not really. Not on purpose. But the thought didn’t feel reckless. It felt… possible. Like maybe, for once, she didn’t have to hide this part of herself.

There was a beat of silence—then a delighted gasp from just over her shoulder.

“Well,” Kevin whispered gleefully, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The air shimmered faintly as a single bobby pin lifted, weightless and slow, carried by something unseen. It hovered with theatrical precision before gently dropping into Elise’s waiting fingers.

She took it without fanfare and secured the curl.

Lark’s mouth opened slightly, her eyes wide. “So it’s true?” she asked. “You can command ghosts?”

Elise gave a half-smile. “It’s not really commanding. I asked nicely. But… yes. I can see them.”

Lark’s expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. But then the moment passed. Her eyes dropped, the light in them dimming as she stood up, murmured her thanks, and melted into the bustle of cast members trickling in.

Kevin floated lazily over to Elise’s shoulder, arms folded. “Whatever’s haunting her?” he said, nodding after her. “It’s not done with her yet.”

The rest of pre-show passed in a blur. Once the full cast arrived, it was the usual steady rhythm: wigs on, bobby pins flying, jokes traded across the counter, and a dozen tiny rituals everyone performed without thinking. Elise was grateful for the familiar buzz. It kept her hands busy and her brain quiet.

Before she knew it, the house lights were dimming and the opening number was in full swing. The backstage world had its own tempo—spun from velvet and sweat, threaded with laughter and low-stakes panic. Elise moved within it like muscle memory, guiding wigs onto heads, exchanging backstage glances, brushing away stray flyaways as if they were stray thoughts. Each step felt familiar, grounding. Even with the weight of sleeplessness and shadows, she welcomed the pull of routine.

By the time Act Two neared its end, she was already in the wings—early, tonight, for Lark’s final quick change.

Onstage, Isla Kent and Lark stood in stark opposition under a cross-shaped spill of light, locked in the verbal duel that was “You Presume Too Much.” The confrontation scene always crackled with energy: Lady Catherine cold and commanding, Elizabeth sharp-tongued and defiant, voices overlapping in fiery counterpoint.

But tonight, something in Lark’s performance felt different. Not wrong, exactly, but dimmed. Her timing was perfect, her voice unwavering, but Elise had watched this duet enough to spot the slippage. A flicker of hesitation in her stance. A strain behind her eyes. A sharpness that felt brittle, not bold.

Then the scene ended. The blackout between scenes swallowed the stage, while the orchestra played a transitional reprise. Lark stormed offstage like a storm breaking through curtains, and the quick change began.

Elise sprang into action—wig off, new one on, fingers flying.

The new dress slipped into place and snapped, shoes changed. Elise was ready with two pins between her teeth as the rain wig settled over Lark’s wig cap. And—miracle of miracles—they were a full second ahead of schedule.

It happened all at once.