Page 21 of Specters & Spotlights

She laughed, shaking her head as she reached for the blow dryer.

Nick backed out of the doorway with a wink. “Good luck with your soggy starlets. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

The last visitor to the wig closet was Lark herself. She slipped in right as Elise was coaxing the finale wig into something resembling dry civility. She was out of costume now, dressed in jeans and a soft-looking sweater, her stage makeup wiped away. Elise glanced up instinctively... curious.

Even without the glitter and lashes, Lark was striking. One of those rare people who carried beauty like it was just another natural feature, like height or freckles. No spotlight required.

She settled into the wig chair with practiced ease, like someone used to being attended to. Elise put the dryer down and stepped behind her to begin unpinning the updo wig.

“I saw you watching the last scene from the wings,” Lark said, her voice a notch above a whisper, but full of intention. “What did you think?”

Elise worked a pin free from the base of the wig. “It’s always been my favorite song. The rain, the fog... it feels like something bigger than a show. Like you’re stepping into a dream.”

Lark didn’t respond right away, but Elise could see her smile in the mirror. Elise lifted the wig from her head with care and turned, expecting Lark to rise, to join the stream of performers dissolving back into the city.

Instead, Lark stayed where she was. She peeled off her wig cap, fingers slipping into her own hair as she began unwinding the lattice of pins with quiet purpose.

It surprised Elise. This moment—the intimacy of undoing hair, of letting the performance fall away—was usually kept in the sanctuary of dressing rooms. But Lark lingered, as if this small space, filled with drying curls and faint traces of hairspray, held something she needed tonight.

Their eyes met in the mirror. Lark didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. But she watched Elise like someone waiting for a sign.

Elise looked back, uncertain. She didn’t mention the breakup, though Nick’s voice echoed faintly in the back of her mind. Lark, post-party, already in someone else’s arms.

She didn’t seem broken.

And yet… something about the way she lingered here, in this too-warm room full of wigs and half-washed makeup, felt less like vanity and more like a bid for connection.

Elise turned away, fingers finding the blow dryer again. The moment passed with the steady hum of warm air.

“Aha! There you are.”

The voice came from the doorway, confident and warm. Elise turned instinctively, meeting Graham’s gaze right as he stepped into the room. His eyes flicked between her and Lark, but seemed to linger on her—just long enough to make her blink.

She glanced at Lark. Surely he was here for her. Right?

But Lark didn’t even look up. She answered like she already knew the script. “Can it wait until tomorrow? Whatever gesture or line you’re obsessing over will still be there in the morning.” The words were teasing, but the edge was undeniable.

There was a pause—only a flicker of hesitation from Graham—as if that wasn’t what he’d meant at all. Elise watched him recalibrate in real time.

“Right,” he said at last, smile faint. “Tomorrow, then.”

And then, with that same easy energy, he turned back to Elise. “What about you? Did you survive your trial by fire?”

The question caught her off guard. Not because it was kind… but because he’d noticed at all.

“I—” she began, before Lark’s voice arrived like a sudden shift in lighting.

“Graham, leave her alone. She’s not your type.”

The room seemed to hold its breath for a beat too long.

Elise looked between them, startled. What does that mean?

Graham’s eyes narrowed. Something like understanding bloomed behind them, private and amused.

“Easy, Lark,” he said gently. “No need to bite my head off.”

He nodded once toward Elise, not quite a bow, but something close.