There are hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of different ways to write a book. I consider myself a “discovery writer” or “gardener” (some might say pantser). I tend to write extremely messy first drafts, sometimes drafts that have only a vague semblance to the story that I later realize I want to tell.

Did you ever want to see thousands of words showing one erratic author’s progression through drafts? If so, you’re in luck!

Titanic Voyage started life as a NaNoWriMo in November 2014. Like most NaNoWriMos I’ve done, I had some vague ideas and then just wrote to see what happened. In that one, the Titanic attraction was a walk-through, not a ride, and Liam and Melia guided students through basically a full-on simulation of the Titanic.

Here’s where the protagonist, Liam, first meets Clara. I may have edited the NaNoWriMo slightly; this draft is from December 2014. The main similarities between that draft and the published novel, besides the idea of a Titanic attraction, are Liam’s full name, Melia existing, Clara’s first name, and Liam’s worried about keeping his job to help care for Elmer, who was then his grandfather.

Yet I found myself wandering the halls full of rooms belonging to people who would be dead well before dawn. I suppose the bright lighting cheered me in the slightest, but mostly I remained trapped in melancholy.

One of the doors opened and a small blonde came out. Her clothes were simple, not like the bustle gowns some people pictured, and not like the cocktail gowns of the first-class. Rather, she wore a one-piece dress, tailored for her modest curves, stopping near the ankles. Pockets on the breasts served as the only ornamentation.

A flush rose to her ivory cheeks and she swept back a stray strand of her curly hair, towards her bun. “I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. “I didn’t think it was curfew yet?”

She shouldn’t have seen me. But she wasn’t a historian and a member of the cast never would have mentioned a curfew.

I blinked, completely lost.

She smiled at me. “Oh, I didn’t mean to startle you, sir. Please forgive me.”

“N–no.”

“You won’t forgive me?” She put her hands on her hips. “Well, that’s rude.”

“N–no. I’m not–I mean–“

“Oh, are you lost?” She reached for my arm. Her touch felt like the prickles you get at the tail end of your foot falling asleep, only a little softer. A shiver coursed through me.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Was I too forward?”

“N–no.”

Don’t touch anything, I reminded myself. Did it count if she touched me?

She gave me a warm smile. “Are you here from second class? These passages are mazes. Lovely mazes, but mazes nonetheless.”

“I’m–I’m with the crew.” I stared at her, not sure what to say. So I said the stupidest thing possible. “My name is Liam. Liam Peterson.”

She grinned. “Clara Bruce. Pleased to meet you.” She turned to peer down the passageway. “Not sure where you’re headed, but this hallway goes to a locked door. Did you have someone you were looking for down here? Another room? This is the women’s quarters, of course.”

I mutely shook my head. “I–I have to go.”

She nodded. “All right. Take care, Mr. Peterson.”

“Y–you too. Clara.”

She flushed the color of a strawberry slushie and I realized my mistake, calling a lady by her given name. But I didn’t correct myself. Instead, I ran down and out of the hallway as quick as I could.

Here’s the first meeting from something I saved a year later (December 2015). Rocky exists (called Michael/Seymour here). Other than that, the only things that I recall that made it into the novel are Clara’s new last name, Liam’s perception of Clara’s unfailing kindness, and a reference to Rocky’s arrogant face.

How to approach her today? I walk up behind her, but she’s so caught up in the sights around her, she doesn’t seem to notice. As best I can tell, she’s been working at Historytown at least since Titanic opened, yet every time I see her, she seems to be seeing something for the first time. I fancy she loves the ship as much as Melia.

I clear my throat. “Clara?”

She goes straight as a poker and twirls around to face me. “S—sir, I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to—“ She pauses, squinting at me. “Have we met before?”

I blink. She’d never admitted to recognizing me before. Am I finally making progress? “Mr. Liam Peterson.”

She bites her lip, then slowly shakes her head. “No, Mr. Peterson, I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure. Miss Clara Jones.”

I bow slightly to her—the Victorian etiquette book I’d read said to always give the lady the honor of bowing first, but when I’d once tried waiting for Clara to bow, she had stared at me like I’d gone mad. I suppose an actress in third class might not have the same social expectations as a first-class lady.
She smiled and performed an odd maneuver; her form of a curtsey. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Peterson.”

“You can call me Liam.” Of course, I’d told her that dozens of times before, and she never listened.
She tilted her head, then turned her attention to the sea. “I hope I haven’t disturbed your duties, Mr. Peterson.”

“Of course not. I’m at my ease right now.”

“Oh, I’m glad.” Her smile fades. “But you missed the sunset, didn’t you?”

As always, Clara acts as though she believes she’s on board the ship, as if she’s actually concerned about me missing a simulated sunset. I’ve not yet discovered her purpose. Perhaps she’s involved in the Romance tour somehow, the one that claims to tell the “real” story of the couple that “inspired” Jack and Rose in the Cameron film. Poor Melia bares her teeth a bit every time anyone even brings that tour up in her presence.

But every time I’d tried to sneak up on Clara, I’d never caught her entertaining any passengers.
“I suppose I did miss the sunset,” I say slowly.

Disappointment fills her eyes, but not a trace of irony. “Well. There’s always tomorrow night. And even this is better than you could see in the city.” She gazes out at the water for another moment before glancing at me. “What do you do on the ship?” Before I can even answer, her cheeks darken. “I’m sorry. That’s too forward, isn’t it?”

“No, no. It’s fine.” I smile at her. “I do whatever they ask of me.”

She squints, looking up at me for a long moment before she turns to face the sea again, her head bowed.

I wonder if I’ve offended her this time with my straightforward answer. I’ve tried every response I could think of, but when I tell her I’m a Tour Guide, she pretends not to understand, and when I’ve said I was a Historian she doesn’t believe me. When I joked that I worked at Taco Bell, she’d asked what a taco was.

I open my mouth to apologize, but she turns to face me again. “I hope things improve for you soon,” she says, her smile completely vanished.

“Cl—“

Her cheeks flush.

“Miss Jones, I mean. I have a good job. It pays the bills. Takes care of my family.”

“Your family?”

“Well, Elmer. You’d call him my father, though he’s really old enough to be my grandfather.” She’s heard the story countless times before, but the way she looks at me—as though I’m the most important person in the world for that moment…I suppose that’s why I keep going to visit her. Even if I’ll never be able to make her break character.

I’ve told her before that he was ill—she always looks shocked and saddened—but never mentioned the home. Maybe this time.

But before I can find the words, someone interrupts me. “Liam Peterson!”

I tense, turning to look toward the stairs leading up to the poop deck.

It’s lice-boy. Seymour. Michael. Whatever we were supposed to call him.

He’s far from the lunch room. And he’s grinning like a loon.

“You’re talking to her!” Michael grins from ear to ear.

I stare for several moments. It’s impossible—his timepiece should have prevented him from entering the simulation at all, until lunch had concluded. I check the time—7:18 p.m. My break isn’t even over, and then Melia has hers. How had he—

“Mr. Peterson?” Clara asks from behind me, softly. “Are you all right?”

I frown, turning to face her. “I’m sorry, Miss Jones. Duty calls, I’m afraid.” Then I whirl around again and grab Michael by the collar, hardly caring if one of the cameras picks it up. “How did you get in here?”

The brat smirks, not a hint of fear on his arrogant face. “It’s easy, when you know the boss.”

Here’s what could best be described as an excerpt from a snippet, saved in January 2017. Rocky is definitely Rocky by now.

It’s only as I draw near to the very front of the bow that I see her. Her back is turned, as if she’s gazing at the sea, hoping to see America approach. It’s a woman in an ankle-length dress and a heavy coat, but no hat. Her loose curls are arranged in a sort of sloppy updo. She’s not just a tourist, but one of the ones who has the bizarre fantasy of being on that doomed ship. And from the way she’s standing crooked, leaning backwards, I wonder if she’s drunk.

“Miss?” I take a few steps closer.

She jerks around, her eyes wide. “Oh, sir!”

Even in the fake night, I can make out a spray of freckles on her cheeks which are otherwise flushed, as if she’s made herself up to be a victim of the cold. She has a definite resemblance to Clara Jones, though she appears to be roughly 30 pounds heavier and her lips are somewhat thinner. So not only is it a tourist with a death fetish, but she’s dreaming of being a famous heroine and martyr as well.

Before I can even think what to say, she rushes toward me. “Sir, please. I need your help.”

“Miss, you shouldn’t be here.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure it much matters at this point!”

I’ve not a clue what she means by that.

“Come, miss.” I put on my best paternal voice. “Let’s see you to the lifeboats.”

“Not yet!” The fire in her eyes and her confidence reflect a modern woman, not one from third class more than 100 years ago. She holds out her closed hand to me. “You’re in the crew, right? Mr. Liam?”

It startles me that she knows my name, until I realize she must be reading my name badge. “I am, and I need you to come with me.”

“And I need to get back down to steerage!” Her jaw clenches and she looks at her fist before thrusting it towards my hands again. “I’m hoping to make it to a lifeboat, but…just in case…I need you to see that my sister gets this. Her name is Cora. Cora Jones. Will you help me?”

So she is trying to pose as Clara. Something about her doesn’t quite match up with a naive tourist, though. Her lines are too practiced, her commitment too intense, and she’s at once too pretty and not pretty enough. Perhaps Rochester’s hiring actresses for some sort of show or interactive experience? There’s something about her determination and yes, her brashness that makes me want to do her bidding. I hold out my hands, palms up. “Let me see it, then.”

She opens her fist above my hands. A sparkling chain and a silver pendant slip out, but I hardly feel them as they slip through my fingers. The jewelry drops to the deck and immediately slides toward the bow. Clara dashes after it but the necklace moves too fast for her and it disappears into the water that’s spread across half the bow.

But we’re not in a scene of the sinking–or at least, we’re not supposed to be. The water is just a projection. I stumble at the tilt of the deck before I force myself to recall that the floor is level, even if the horizon projected on the walls claims otherwise. Perhaps a strong magnet attracted the necklace.

Clara stops short of the water, staring down.

I’m suspecting she’s an actress, though perhaps she’s a tourist after all, which means I’m simply going mad and imagining the slant. “Melia?” I whisper, hoping Clara doesn’t hear. “I found someone, but she’s dressed and acting like Clara Jones. Is that your stowaway?”

“Must be,” Melia says through my earpiece. “Get her off the set first, and make sure she’s safe. I’ll meet you backstage.”

I move towards Clara, quiet as a cat. No use in startling her. “Clara?” I whisper.

She slowly turns again. She must have somehow adjusted her make-up while I was distracted because she’s now more pale than flushed. “I don’t suppose you know how to get that back.”

“If it’s fallen off, maintenance will look for it on their weekly walk-through. Call Lost and Found in a few days.”

She tilts her head. “This is hardly the time for jokes, Mr. Liam.” Then she shakes her head, dislodging a curl which lays across her forehead. “But will you please look for Cora Jones all the same? Tell her that Clara’s…” She shakes her head. “I’ll tell her myself, once I make it to a lifeboat. Thanks just the same, though.” With a shake of her head, she makes her way toward the cast entrance. I rush ahead and open the door for her.

She smiles at me. “Thank–“

And just like that, she’s gone. Literally–nothing remains of the person I was talking to. It’s so impossible, I’m sure I’ve lost my mind.

“M–Melia? Did you see that?”

“Liam? Did you get her offstage?”

“Not…exactly. Can you check the screens for her?”

“Liam–“

Laughter rings in my earpiece, reminiscent of a hyena, except I’m not sure hyenas snort. “You–you really thought it was her, didn’t you?”

The voice is familiar, but it takes me a moment to place it. “Rocky?”

He laughs again. “I’ve seen you look at her on the ride. I even saw you ogling a poster. You liiiiiike her, don’t you?”

I grit my teeth and stomp towards the stairs to the catwalk above the set.

Lawrence “Rocky” Rochester was the most annoying and immature person in my graduating class. Of course, he was moved up three grades, being a genius, but that didn’t give him a right to tease everyone the way he did. Of course, he was the boss’s son, and in a way, my boss as well. He thought that gave him a right to be a bigger headache than our travelers, and since he always got away with it…maybe it did.

I tackled the novel in earnest in November 2017 for another NaNoWriMo, effectively starting from scratch. That was the draft where I decided that the story would be told “to” Clara, though in a different way than it is in the final work. NaNoWriMo style, I waffled between present and past tense, though I believe I intended for it to all be present. (I removed a paragraph and a chapter break to avoid spoilers.) This draft was labeled November 2017 but saved in May 2018.

I crack the door and peer through. The door opens right onto the hallway scene; in fact, it’s a real door at the end of the hallway nearest to the stairway.

The intruder is wearing your black dress, a brown oversized coat over it, just as you would. Except as far as I can tell, she’s solid–not like a holoactor. The rest of the scene is empty, with the lights dimmed–not unlike the Voyage after hours.

“What do you see?” Melia asks.

“Looks like a person,” I whisper.

“Anywhere near the track?”

“Still by the stairs.”

She freezes, her head swiveling back to face me.

“Hey!” I call. “What are you doing here?”

She shakes her head, knowing she’s in trouble. I open the door wide enough that she can see me, uniform and all. “This way,” I say, keeping my voice gruff.

She flinches and moves toward me. She’s dressed exactly like you; even her reddish hair and her freckles are identical to yours. “I’m sorry, sir; I didn’t mean any harm. This is just the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, and I wanted to see as much as I could.”

I’ve never yet seen a person who resembles you as much as she does. “I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring actors for this attraction. The holoactors–“

“Oh, no, sir. I’m not an actor.” She shakes her head several times. “I’ll go back to my room. Unless…” She looks down, then smiles a little. “Unless you’d be willing to take me up to the deck? I only wanted to see the stars.”

Is it a prank? Is she mad? I motion to the stairway. “You know as well as I that those stairs stop at the roof. You’re an excellent actress, but give it up.”

A flash temporarily blinds me–one of the guests. I groan. So my visage will be all across social media. Not my intention. “Ashley, is the parade of gawkers almost done?”

“Six more cars.”

The insane actress is staring at me, her head cocked. “I told you; I’m not an actress.” A blush colours her cheeks. “I truly only wanted to see the stars…”

It’s complete foolishness, but the way she stares at me makes me want to oblige. I gaze past her, at the passing Omnimover cars. The gawkers’ eyes are barely visible past the over-bright stage lights focused on us. Finally, the last occupied car goes by. I open the door the rest of the way and reach toward the actress, but she moves out of the way. “Come with me,” I say, “or I’ll call security.”

She looks baffled. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go right back to my room.”

I lurch toward her but she again evades my grasp. “What’s your name?” I ask her.

Her brown eyes are dark and innocent, like a doe’s eyes. “Clara,” she says. “Clara Jones.”

She’s you, Clara. She’s you. I–

…

So I’m not sure if you remember our first meeting. I was accusing you of being a liar, an actress, or mad, while you were trying to talk your way out of the lesser trouble you were sure you were in. We talked circles for a minute or two and then you looked at me, paused, and then bolted down the stage hallway and out of sight.

“Where’d she go?” I called, hoping Melia or Ashley could help.

“I don’t see anything, Liam,” called Melia.

“But the sensors only show you,” Ashley added.

Someone exhaled–Melia, I think. “No choice. Ashley, stop the ride. Liam, find her. Everyone else, we’re evacuating. Graham, come back from break to help, please. If we can find that lunatic, we can probably restart in twenty minutes.”

I hear the machinery grind to a stop. There’s a message throughout. “Please remain seated. Permanecer sentados, por favor. Your ride will resume shortly.” It wouldn’t, but no need to panic everyone.

Forest asks, “Shouldn’t we call security?”

“We can take care of this,” Melia says. “The monitors don’t show anything amiss, so there’s no danger.”

She doesn’t mention that if any of the higher-ups bother to review today’s conversations, she’ll be in very serious trouble. I only hope that we can find you soon. I close the door and slip backstage.

“Clara!” I call. “Ashley, bring the lights up back here, will you? Not on stage.”

The lights go up backstage, illuminating the signs that point to the different areas of the attraction. I pause at the screens and scan the video feed. “Any idea where she could be?”

“We’ve got Graham searching too,” Melia says.

“The bow!” Ashley cries.

“Which one? The sweep or–“

“The sinking bow!” Melia says.

“Well-spotted,” I breathe. “I’m on my way.”

Melia gasps. “Liam….hurry. Keep calm but hurry. Try not to startle her.”

“What’s wrong?”

Melia doesn’t answer.

“I’m at the door, Melia. What should I do?”

“Open the door slowly and call to her. Call her Clara if you need to; just talk her back from the edge.”
And she hadn’t called the authorities? I want to trust Melia, of course, but would she really endanger someone to keep her position?

As I turn the doorknob, Ashley adds, “The sensors still aren’t showing anything amiss–” It sounds like Melia cut off her signal. I hoped she’d cut off all of them. I needed to be able to concentrate.
I open the door onto an eerie scene. Stars shine in the moonless sky overhead, reflecting off the tilting deck and the glassy water that spills over onto it. A blast of cold sweeps over the whole room.

The holoactors have been turned off, leaving the deck deserted. The background soundtrack remains, though, so faint screams and strains of chipper music surround me.

Clara’s there, a full six feet away from the railing of the bow. It’s not until I actually step onto the set that I realize why Melia was so frightened. It’s at perhaps a fifteen-degree angle, but with little traction. I slip a foot and hear Melia gasp, which doesn’t instill much confidence. Instead, I stay still.

“Clara!”

You turn, gazing at me with your wide eyes. “You–you’re the gentleman I spoke with a few hours ago.”

How deep was she acting? But the whole idea was to keep her calm. “This way, please, Clara. Miss Jones.”

“And you remember me.” You smile, your cheeks dark in the winter air–but your eyes glisten, as though filled with unshed tears. You reach behind your neck and undo a clasp, then take a pendant into your hand. “Please. Can you see my sister gets this?”

You take a shaky step towards me. I’ve no way to go to you, but I say “Take the rail!”

You instantly see the wisdom in that and edge your way toward the railing. You only grip it with one hand, though, holding the necklace in the other. I edge out the door and find a railing of my own, against the wall–probably not authentic but added for safety. It’s painted the same white as the wall. I hold it tight and reach for you. “Give me your hand! We can retrieve the necklace later!”

“How? She’s sinking! They’re launching lifeboats!” You haul yourself up until you’re nearly close enough to touch me. I reach out a bit farther, close enough to touch you, if you’d extend your fingers instead of gripping that necklace.

“My sister is Emma Jones,” you say. “Cabin 143, if that helps. Third class.”

If you want to play, maybe I need to play along. Anything to get you to safety. “You’re not going down with the ship, Miss Jones. I need you to come with me. I’ll see you to a lifeboat.”

You gasp, almost as though the thought of escape hadn’t occurred to you. “I’ll…I’ll try, but I’ve had dreams. Please, promise me, you’ll at least try to give this to Emma.” You try to press the necklace into my fingertips but it slips. You lunge after it and I lunge after you, but it slides cleanly across the deck, vanishing into the projected water at the sunken bow. You stop and stare after it, eyes wide, totally motionless.

I turn my attention to the deck, release the handrail, and take careful steps toward you. “Careful, Clara. I promise, we’ll fetch it later or replace it. And I promise, I’ll do all I can to get you off this ship safely.”

You look back at me, genuine tears streaming down your face. In that moment, I’m some sort of officer and you’re a distraught passenger, not a madwoman.

“Come with me,” I repeat. “Please. I can get you to safety.”

“But Jamila is still down there, and those kids. I–I can’t ask you to risk your life or abandon your duties, but–“

“I’ll help you find them. Come on. this way. And I’ll get word to your sister on the way. All right?”

You give me a weak smile through the tears, then move toward me. My hand tingles as you place yours in it and squeeze. “You never told me your name.”

“Liam. Liam Peterson.” I grip your hand tightly, not even thinking of how you’ll react to see the sterile walkways outside the elegance of the fading ship. “Just a couple steps more.” You seem to have a lot less trouble than me on the incline–perhaps you’re in better shape than I am. I motion to the lit hallway behind the half-open door. If you see it, you don’t react. You’re watching me, an impossible mix of trust and fear in your eyes.

“The whole stern is intact,” I insist, “and there are quite a few lifeboats available even now. Try to stay calm. It’s women and children first, you know. You and your friends will be fine.” I’m trying to distract you as I pull you through the doorway.

Or I try to.

I pass through but your eyes go wide and then–you’re gone. Nothing more, nothing less. My hand is empty and you’re gone.

After a few moments of silence, Melia calls me. “Liam?”

I’m left staring. You were so, so real, Clara. Unbelievably real, like a ghost I could touch somehow.

“She…it…must have been a new holoactor after all,” I whisper. “She’s gone.”

Melia says, “But surely I would have–“

Raucous laughter sounds through my earpiece, perhaps deafening my right ear. “You fell for it! You all fell for it!”

I know that voice. So does Melia.

“Rocky?” we both ask.

By July 2019, I finally had something resembling the final.

I’m sure some crazy woman climbed out of the lift. The most famous Titanic film has an iconic scene at the bow; perhaps she intended to re-enact it. Perhaps she wanted to get a photograph of herself there! My stomach clenches.

I crack the door and peer through on an eerie scene. All 100 feet of Titanic’s forecastle spreads out before me. Stars shine in the moonless sky overhead, and a blast of cold sweeps over the whole room. 

But it’s not right. Normally there would be a few holoactors on deck as the iceberg strikes, but Henry’s turned them off. More worrisome, the dark horizon is tilted, or else the bow itself is. And the front of the bow disappears into the dark, speckled with flecks of light–the reflection of the stars. “Melia?” I ask. “Was there a flood?”

“Liam, be serious. Get her!”

I make out a figure in the dimness, midway between my end of the set and the bow, near the starboard railing. She wears a long, bulky, dark dress, rather like a costume piece, and a bulky overcoat on top. 

I step out toward her, but whether it’s truly tilted or I’m just disorientated, the deck is slanted, and my work shoes slip on the surface. I slip a couple feet down the deck and hear three gasps in my earpiece, which doesn’t instill much confidence. I flail my arms and manage to grasp the black railing on the black set wall behind me.

I take a few breaths to compose myself, and to try to figure out how to keep from startling the traveler. I clear my throat, loud as I can to account for the distance,but she doesn’t look up. “Miss?” I call.

She turns, gazing at me with her wide eyes. The woman has your freckles, your tousled updo…your outfit. The best cosplayer I’ve yet to see. 

I release the railing and take a tentative step toward her, extending my whole arm. “This way, miss, please.”

She locks eyes with me, her expression unreadable, then moves toward me. Her shoes slip and she gasps, grabbing the railing again.

“Pull yourself up with the railing!” I cry. So much for staying calm.

She nods, her lips set in a determined grimace. But she only holds the starboard railing with one hand, trying to pull herself up. She’s holding something in her other hand. 

I retreat to the railing at my wall and make my way toward where the forecastle railing meets the wall of the show building. “This way! Give me your hand!”

She stares with wide eyes for a few moments more. “I thought—thought there were supposed to be lifeboats up here.”

The way she’s trembling, I could believe that she thinks she’s about to drown. “They’re on Boat Deck. Hurry.”

Too slowly, she shuffles her way toward me, keeping a tight grip on whatever she’s holding.

“Put that in your coat pocket,” I say, trying to put authority in my voice. “You need both hands to hold on.”

She shakes her head. “It’s my necklace, sir. Can you please see that my sister gets it?  Emma Jones. Cabin E-143, if that helps.  Third class. She’s already on a lifeboat.”

Is she delusional? Or is she trying to play a game? “Melia,” I whisper through clenched teeth. “What do I do?”

“Play along if you must,” Melia says. “Just keep her calm and get her off the set.”

I nod the slightest bit and take a moment to gather my thoughts before I say, “So you must be Clara Jones.”

Her eyes go wide and she gasps. “How—how did you guess?”

I don’t respond for a few moments as I transfer to the starboard railing, then haul myself towards her. “We have records. And besides, you said your sister’s last name was Jones.” I stop a few feet short of her and offer her a smile. “Please, come with me. I’ll see you to a lifeboat.”

She gasps, almost as though the thought of escape hadn’t occurred to her. “I’ll…I’ll try, but I—I have this feeling…I’ve had dreams…” She swallows, a new pallor on her cheeks. “Please, promise me, you’ll at least try to give this to Emma.” She tries to press the necklace into my hand but it slips. She lunges after it and I lunge after her, but it slides cleanly across the deck, vanishing into the projected water at the sunken bow. She stops and stares after it.

“Clara.” There’s an edge in my voice. “We’ll fetch it later, or replace it. Now, please.”

She looks back at me, genuine tears streaming down her face. In that moment, I’m some sort of officer and she’s a distraught and brokenhearted passenger, not a madwoman.

She’s Clara Jones.

“Hurry,” I whisper. “I need to get you off this ship safely.”

She wipes her eyes with her sleeve, then shakes her head. “Jamila is still down there, and those kids. I–I can’t ask you to risk your life or abandon your duties, but—”

“I’ll help you find them. Come on. This way. And I’ll get word to your sister. All right?”

She gives me a weak smile through the tears, then edges closer. I stretch again, holding out my hand to her, and she grabs it and squeezes. My own hand tingles.

“You never told me your name.”

“Liam. Liam Peterson.” I grip her hand tightly and motion to the lit hallway behind the half-open door that leads backstage. “Just a couple steps more. I’ll have to ask you to refrain from taking any photographs in the Historian-restricted areas, of course…”

She plants her feet, a puzzled look on her face. “What do you mean?”

Of course; she’s a madwoman after all. “Apologies, miss.” I tug her, a little harder than I should have, perhaps, but she starts moving again. The silence is eerie, the darkness oppressive, and I’m holding hands with a delusional costumer. But I’m only a man, Clara. Something about it feels right.

We reach the doorway at last, and I hear Melia sigh in relief. 

The costumer looks up at me, her hazel eyes round. “Now what?” she whispers.

“Come with me.” I squeeze her hand and pull her through the doorway into the backstage area.

Or I try to.

I pass through but the woman’s eyes go wide and then—she’s gone. My hand is empty and she’s gone.

After a few moments of silence, Melia asks, “Liam?”

I’m left staring at the space where she was. “She vanished!” I peer into the darkness on the other side of the doorway. What I thought was water has vanished from the set. “Melia, what’s going–”

Raucous laughter sounds through my earpiece, perhaps deafening my right ear. “You fell for it!” someone yells. “You all fell for it!”

I know that voice. So does Melia.

“Rocky?” we both ask.

You might remember him, Clara, though you never saw him face-to-face. Allistair Seymour Rochester the Third:  prodigy son of Mr. Rochester himself, computer genius, and insufferable brat. You can probably understand why he chooses to go by Rocky instead; even I can’t fault him for that.

The little monkey laughs for a full thirty seconds, so loudly I can only hear Melia’s shouts, not the actual words. Finally, he stops to take a breath.

“Rocky,” Melia says, “I was about to call security! Do you want me to lose my job?”

He laughs again. “Oh, I am good!”

If you want to see the finished version and see where various bits and pieces got shuffled into the book, please check out Titanic Voyage, available at most retailers.