Page 96 of Specters & Spotlights

There was no response at first, but then one of the fluorescent bulbs overhead flickered once, then again, in a soft rhythmic pulse. Like a wink.

Nick blinked. “Okay… was that…?”

A slow, deliberate breeze ruffled the hem of his jacket—not cold, but unmistakably there. The kind of breeze that shouldn’t exist indoors.

Nick straightened, grinning. “Ghost-approved margarita night. I can die happy.”

“You’d better not,” Elise muttered, tugging him toward the door.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, Nick started rattling off a list of potential bars like a man on a mission. Elise let the momentum carry her forward, grateful for the distraction—and for once, not minding the attention.

Chapter Eighteen

Elise

The final day in this city arrived with the energy of a long, dramatic curtain call—over it, a little emotional, but determined to go out with flair.

Elise showed up right before lunch for the matinee call time, mildly hungover and unapologetically caffeinated, still sporting a light shimmer of regret from last night’s “we’ll just have one” adventure with Nick.

The faint herbal scent of rosemary clung to her skin from her late-night soak, grounding and sharp. Under her shirt, the iron nail and rose quartz clinked gently against each other with every step, a soft reminder of the extra armor she carried now. Around her ankle, the braided cord Cici had sent—woven with soft threads and a tiny crescent moon charm—sat snug and certain. She’d worn it for days, but today, it felt like part of the shield.

Protection, but make it fashion.

Marcie leaned into the wig room with the desperation of a woman about to face the horrors of company-issued packing kits. “Hey, do you have room in your trunk again? Because I swear if I have to Tetris my contour palettes one more time…”

Elise laughed, setting down her brush. “Bring it by after the evening show—I’ve got you.”

Marcie grinned. “You’re a hero. I’ll drop by before I head out tonight.” She hesitated, then added casually, “You coming to the party tonight? Jen picked out a solid spot. Karaoke and overpriced cocktails. It’ll be fun.”

The question hung in the air. Not just are you coming, but can you handle it this time?

Elise straightened a wig stand, her voice light but sure. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The hours passed in a blur of bobby pins, quick changes, and the soft electric buzz of anticipation. Something about the final day in a theatre always carried a strange magic: part nostalgia, part relief, part barely-contained chaos. The energy backstage was kinetic, effervescent. Elise felt it humming in her bones.

Between scenes, the talk was all about tonight’s cast party and the promise of a real break. Elise was flying out early the next morning—one of the joys of being crew. She needed to be in the next city a day ahead for load-in, while most of the cast had a buffer day to explore, recover, and roll out at a more leisurely pace.

Jen found her during a lull in the matinee, confirming what Elise already feared—no updates on Ellen. No clues, no sightings. Just a ghost of a girl who’d vanished without a trace. A new understudy had been contracted and would be joining them sometime in the next city. Elise didn’t ask for details. She just nodded and kept pinning.

Meanwhile, the Bennet sisters’ dressing room was its own subplot: an escalating cold war over the affections of Stage Left Steve. Elise heard about it in snippets while passing through—snide comments, dramatic sighs, one suspiciously slammed foundation compact. She stayed out of it. Wig corners, unlike love triangles, were Switzerland.

The break between shows had never felt so domestic.

Marco showed up with food, takeout boxes cradled in his arms like sacred offerings, and immediately brightened the dim backstage corridor with his easy smile and effortless charm. Elise accepted a container with quiet gratitude, perched herself near the wig counter, and resumed curling the damp rain wig from the matinee while the others unwrapped sandwiches and noodles.

The four of them—Elise, Nick, Graham, and Marco—settled into a kind of makeshift green room bubble. Graham leaned against the wall with his legs stretched out, Nick was curled up next to Marco like a smug cat. Conversation meandered, skipping between topics as fluidly as scene changes. Marco was effortlessly funny, the kind of person who laughed with his whole face, and Elise found herself charmed.

More than that, she liked the way he looked at Nick. There was a softness there, something genuine and unguarded. Nick responded in kind, a little more animated, a little less performative. They fit. Maybe imperfectly, maybe temporarily—but there was a spark, and Elise could see it.

She didn’t ask whether they’d talked about what happened next. The show moved on after tonight. Nick would be boarding a plane in two days. Maybe Marco would stay behind. Maybe not. She didn’t pry. Some things you just let sit quietly, like curlers in a wig, waiting to take shape in their own time.

The second bout of preshow hum had settled into its usual rhythm: costumes being zipped, mics tested, stagehands drifting in and out like ghosts themselves. Elise had a glue brush in one hand and was holding down the lacefront of Sienna’s Kitty wig with the other, while Sienna casually scrolled through TikTok—when Graham strolled into her line of sight like a living Regency romance novel.

She kept her voice casual. “Hair inspection?”

He gave a solemn nod, standing just a bit taller, chin lifted like a soldier reporting for duty. Elise turned to him, tilting her head with mock scrutiny. “Mmm. Looks questionable. Better let me take a closer look.”

Sienna giggled from the wig chair, but Elise didn’t break stride. She stepped in close—closer than strictly professional—and raised a hand to gently smooth the front of Graham’s hair. There was nothing wrong with it, of course. Perfectly tousled. But that didn’t stop her from running her fingers through it anyway, slipping through his hair with deliberate care. A brush just behind his ear, slow and careful. Pure mischief.