Page 7 of Specters & Spotlights

Kevin floated lazily behind her, arms crossed. “See? Was that so hard? I told you they wouldn’t burn you at the stake... immediately.”

“Hush,” Elise muttered. “Let me have my moment.”

Nick’s usual grin had softened into something more sincere, like he knew this wasn’t something she handed out freely. Elise could see the gears turning behind his smile.

“Wow,” he said. “I never thought you were boring before, but you just became the most interesting person in my world. Prepare yourself for an unending influx of questions—though I will try to stagger them tastefully.”

Elise snorted. “Thanks. I appreciate the ‘tastefully’ part.”

She didn’t regret telling him. Not yet, anyways.

She worked on the final curl at the temple, pressing it delicately into place. The heat from the iron lingered on her fingertips, grounding her. In this moment—this strange new theatre, this cluttered wig closet, this familiar face—she felt less like she’d left something behind and more like she was stepping into something.

Then a thought hit her mid-curl.

“You didn’t… tell anyone else, did you? About the ghost thing?” she asked, not accusing, only… cautious.

Nick’s hand fluttered to his chest like she’d wounded him. “Elise. Please. I’m not a complete gossip.” He paused, grinning. “But I will say this—you might find some kindred spirits in this cast. Most of us range somewhere between ‘supernaturally chill’ and ‘active spellbook ownership.’”

That raised an eyebrow. Elise tucked it away for later.

As Nick finished rearranging the wigs, she gave the one she was working on one final once-over, and exhaled. The nerves hadn’t vanished, but they’d shifted. The familiarity she’d lost leaving the First National tour might not be gone forever. She’d known the patterns of that company by heart—who arrived first for call, who borrowed pins without returning them, who cried after notes. She’d known where she fit. Here, everything was still slightly off-axis. But maybe not forever.

Nick stepped back right as Elise gave the final wig a liberal spritz of setting spray, the scent of alcohol and something vaguely floral filling the air.

“All present and accounted for,” Nick said, surveying the newly organized rows like a proud shopkeeper.

Elise gave a satisfied nod, wiping her hands on the towel draped over her shoulder. Most of the women’s wigs were, blessedly, built like small architectural marvels—tight curls and pin-sculpted updos that could survive a minor hurricane if needed. Maintenance was minimal. A little frizz patrol, some lace cleaning, and they were ready to go.

The men’s wigs were easier still—short, tidy, and unfussy. The Colonel’s mutton chops were the only thing resembling a challenge, and even those just needed some pomade and a prayer.

She stepped closer, studying the neat row. The sense of order soothed her—until it didn’t.

Something was wrong.

Kevin’s voice came from behind, quiet but amused. “Ah. There it is. The face of a woman betrayed by inventory.”

Her gaze moved carefully across the wigs again, slower this time, her breath shallow. One was missing. Not just any wig. Mr. Darcy’s.

“Elise?” Nick asked, brow furrowing.

She was already rifling through the trunk again, heart rising toward her throat.

“The Darcy wig,” Elise said sharply, scanning the room again, eyes landing on the clock: a little under three hours to curtain. “Where is the Darcy wig?”

Nick straightened, a sheepish grin blooming. “Oh, that. Right. Okay—funny thing. He doesn’t use one.”

Elise blinked. “Come again?”

Nick was digging back into the trunk, hands flailing in a dramatic search. “But don’t worry, my Darcy wig is definitely in here. Somewhere. Because apparently my hair doesn’t scream ‘brooding regency aristocrat’ the way his does.”

Elise tilted her head. “You’re telling me he goes onstage… next to other men in wigs… and they just let that slide?” That was highly irregular; real hair stood out like a sore thumb next to a lineup of perfectly styled wigs.

Nick popped his head up from the trunk, sheepish. “I mean, it’s really good hair. Distractingly good hair. I’m told it’s the kind of hair that makes straight men question things.”

Elise stared at him.

He shrugged, palms up. “Hey, I don’t make the follicle rules.”