Page 20 of Specters & Spotlights

It was smooth, practiced. To the audience, it would look like perfection. The illusion was airtight. But Elise had seen hundreds of onstage kisses. She knew the difference between surrender and simulation.

Huh.

She watched them hold the pose for a moment—just enough to make it feel true—before breaking apart on cue, and sweeping offstage as the curtain dropped and the final musical notes swelled.

Back in the dark, Elise tilted her head. Her last company always had the leads go for the full kiss. She wondered if this was a director's choice. A stylistic thing. Or maybe one of the leads wasn’t a fan of shared spit.

She didn’t judge. But she was curious.

Chapter Five

Elise

The curtain kissed the stage with finality, and the theatre exhaled.

Back in her little wig closet sanctuary, Elise assumed her role as the quiet unwinder of magic. One by one, cast members filtered through for their final transformation of the night—this time, from character back to person. She moved efficiently, gently lifting pins, rubbing away spirit gum, offering a nod here, a soft joke there.

It was always a funny limbo, this backstage in-between. Talia, cheeks still rosy from her last bow, leaned against the doorframe. “I swear this wig aged me ten years,” she joked as Elise peeled away the curls.

Ed followed, stoic as ever, until Elise handed him a makeup wipe and he broke into a grin. “Cheers, sorceress.”

And Ellen sat silently as Elise worked, the only sound between them the soft clink of pins in her dish.

The wig closet, warm and humming with leftover adrenaline, became a confessional of sorts—actors cycling through in various stages of undress and unwinding. Bits of character clung like glitter: a beauty mark, a perfectly coiffed wave, a whisper of accent in someone’s thank-you.

There was a sacred strangeness to this moment. The air was thick with transformation—not the kind that happened onstage, but something quieter. Truer. These weren’t just costume changes; they were returns. To self. To skin. To the ordinary world.

Soon, they would leave. Not as Colonel Fitzwilliam, or Lydia, or Ensemble Member #3, but as Ed, Talia, and Ellen, their faces half-washed, voices tired, disappearing into streets lined with audience members who would never recognize them.

It felt like a secret only she got to see. This too, was theatre. The invisible magic. The slow, reverent unmaking.

Nick poked his head into the wig closet right as Elise was gently peeling the final Bennet sister wig off Sienna’s head. He had swapped his Regency coat for a sleek navy pea coat, sleek and smug, with his satchel slung across his chest like he was headed somewhere chic and important.

“You survived your first show with us! Doing anything to celebrate?” he grinned.

Elise didn’t answer—she just glanced toward the far counter, where a damp, rain-drenched wig sat in tragic solitude. A small puddle had formed beneath it, like it was weeping for itself.

Nick followed her eyes and winced as if the wig itself had scolded him.

“Ah. Of course. The drowned diva.”

She nodded solemnly. “We’ve got two shows tomorrow, and I’ve got to get both these babies ready.” She gave the wet wig a little pat, like a stoic nurse with a very demanding patient.

Dry, style, set. Only then would they curl like poetry by matinee curtain.

Nick mock-shuddered. “The glamorous life of the theatre.”

Truthfully, she didn’t mind. With wigs like this (human hair, not synthetic), you shouldn’t risk air-drying, unless you wanted to chance waking up to mildew and frizz that no amount of heat tools could fix. The rain scene demanded realism, and wet synthetic fibers would have clumped and gleamed like cheap tinsel under the stage lights. These wig twins, at least, had the dignity of a true leading lady. High maintenance, yes. But believable.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t really go in for the post-show debauchery anyway.”

“You say that now,” Nick teased, “but just wait until the closing night karaoke ritual. That’s when the real demons emerge.”

He paused, then leaned casually against the doorframe. “Honestly, you missed a whole soap opera at the last one. Lark and Ellen broke up mid-party. I was literally holding a tambourine when it happened. And by the third verse of ‘Shallow,’ Lark was lip-locked with Avery from the ensemble like it was Spring Awakening all over again.”

Elise raised a brow. “Fast rebound.”

“Whiplash rebound,” Nick said, hands raised. “I’m not judging. Just saying—you’ve got to pace yourself with this group.”