Page 68 of Specters & Spotlights

Nick lived every line, every breath of Mr. Darcy, like the part had waited just for him. His steps were sure, his voice steady, his eyes bright with fire. Each time he reappeared backstage, he shimmered with adrenaline—beaming silently at Elise, mouthing how did I do? as he darted past.

She didn’t have to answer. Her smile said it all.

Midway through Act One, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She waited for a quiet moment, then checked it to find a message from Cici.

Cici

Just checking in. Still getting odd energy from your end. Also... envelope?

Elise stared at the screen for a second before replying.

Haven’t opened it yet.

Okay. No pressure.

You’ll know when it’s time.

Elise tucked the phone away, heart a little heavier. Cici always knew when to nudge and when to let go. Still, the envelope waited, folded in the bottom of her luggage.

Intermission arrived in a flurry of costume changes, wig touch-ups, and scattered chaos. Someone had misplaced a prop hat, someone else needed their mic battery swapped, and one of the ensemble members had a minor breakdown over a shoe strap snapping right before a dance number.

Just another Tuesday.

Elise remained steady through the chaos, but after the house lights dimmed for Act Two, she found herself drifting to the backstage area earlier than usual to watch Nick from the wings.

Nick’s voice carried from the stage—low, measured, full of quiet ache. “No One Will Know” was always a subtle number, more confession than anthem, but tonight he was singing the hell out of it. Each note a thread of redemption, weaving Darcy’s sacrifice into something almost tender.

From the wings, the show looked different. Softer. More alive.

She stayed still, entranced.

With a rustle behind her, Gina slid into place for the quick change and gave a little start. “Didn’t expect to see you here already,” she whispered, surprised.

Elise kept her eyes on the stage. “Didn’t want to miss this part.”

In a few minutes, she’d need to sprint back to the wig station during “Yes”—Jane and Bingley’s duet, all swoons and sweetness—but for now, she allowed herself this pause. Nick stood alone at center stage, and somehow filled it with everything Darcy couldn’t say out loud. After a moment, she slipped away, boots silent on worn plywood, weaving through cast and crew to reach the green room.

Back in the wig corner, Elise barely looked up as she adjusted a wig here, smoothed a collar there. She lost track of the music for a moment, until she heard her cue again.

Quick change time always had its own kind of rhythm—a little chaotic, a little thrilling. Elise had done this hundreds of times, but it still felt like a dance. Lark rushed into the wings already half-unsnapped, her previous costume sliding off as Elise met her with practiced hands.

“Head up,” Elise said gently, promptly unpinning the updo wig that was currently resting on Lark’s head.

It was going smoothly. Until it wasn’t.

In the rush of fabric and movement, Elise caught a glimpse of Lark’s shoulder—and froze. There, just beneath the strap of her chemise, was a bruise. Dark, recent. And shaped unmistakably like a hand.

Four fingers. One thumb.

The sight was a tripwire. For a faint second, Elise wasn’t in the wings anymore.

She was twenty-two again, crouched behind the lighting console in another theatre, wearing her techie blacks, trying to keep her breathing quiet. The bruise on her arm—hidden, of course—throbbed like it had a voice. She remembered pressing her fingers to it in the mirror later, tracing the shape. Wondering if it really was that bad. Wondering if she’d deserved it.

No.

She blinked hard, came back to the present. The dress was already half on, and Lark was looking at her—saw that Elise had seen. Her eyes were wide, but there was no time to speak.

Elise nodded, just once. Message received. Then she snapped back into motion, pulling the wig over Lark’s head, fingers finding the pins with muscle memory. She worked fast, gentle, precise.