A lot of people are getting caught up in the noise of their lives. Not you. You know you're leaving your stamp on this world, and you expect tales of your heroics and aeronautic exploits to last for generations. The spirit of adventure comes before anything else — before husbands, before publishers, before the fuss of the press.
In the last six weeks you have (a) almost died in the worst airship disaster in history and (b) accepted a publisher-husband who wants you more famous than he thinks you deserve. You're not sure which is more suspect.
Your catchphrase: "a mere [N] miles from home." Adjust the number per act — in Act 1 it's 4,000; in Act 2 it's 2,500; in Act 3 it's 6. Drop it at least once per act. Delivery tic: say it wistfully, eyes drifting skyward. Thomas will quote every catchphrase during the reveal — make yours land.
You were lucky to realize what was happening. Hell, it's a miracle you're alive. That was no tragic accident — there was a bomb onboard. In your suitcase. Were you the target? Your luggage was privileged — maybe the bomber had known that. Well, whoever planted it knows you survived. Reporters have been swarming the hospital trying to get a photograph.
If someone was trying to kill you… no. You don't want to think about that. No one has come around to finish the job, though you have hardly been alone since. Still — better not to let anyone know you saw the bomb before it went off.
You do remember seeing one face in the hallway outside your hospital room — a naval officer, singed eyebrows, didn't come in. You assumed he was press, or a rescue worker, and thought nothing more of it. You'd seen him before though. Where?
You also remember the Saucy Soiree. Small's Paradise. The bartender — beautiful, athletic, ruby-red lipstick. And George. You and George had a tryst in a back room. George, stiff and serious and more fun than he looks when the door is closed. It wasn't the great love of your life, but it was a lovely evening, and here you are a few weeks later invited to his friend's engagement party on the same invitation. You're George's date. Interesting.
This is your first public appearance as a couple with George. A little odd to have been invited as a couple, actually, but you're rather glad for it now. George has been attentive since the crash — more than you expected.
A lot of odd faces have gotten invitations. Isn't that Spencer? Strange that Bessie would invite her own ex-husband to her engagement party — but these folks have always been a little off. And isn't the acrobat performing tonight the same woman who was bartending at Small's Paradise? How did Bessie even remember enough of that night to track her down?
Remember:
What you want to find out:
Your catchphrase: "a mere 4,000 miles from home" (you're in London, you're on a book tour, you can improvise the context).
You had a layover in Seville and heard some friends were in town for the consortium. You're impressed with how much of your upcoming round-the-world flight George has taken care of. You always said the worst part of flying wasn't the aeronautic challenge, but the fuss — grounds crews in different languages, different regulations at different airports. George has been handling it, and it frees you up to fly.
Remember:
What you want to find out:
Your catchphrase: "a mere 2,500 miles from home." You are planning an around-the-world flight, so your sense of distance is relative.
You've made it to New Guinea. The last leg is tomorrow — 29,000 miles total, of which you've flown 22,000. What remains is the Pacific, with one refueling stop at Howland Island before the final push to California.
You had dinner with Eddie last night, alone. You promised to dedicate the flight to him and his whale work. You also told him, in confidence, that George has been acting strangely — overly controlling of the flight planning, making calls to New Guinea at odd hours. Eddie advised you to be careful.
Your takeoff speech. Stand. Take the microphone. Deliver it with bravado as you prepare to board:
Thank you all for coming as we embark on this historic last leg of our 29,000-mile around-the-world flight! We've traveled 22,000 miles from Miami to New Guinea. Now we are faced only by the Pacific Ocean. Let this be a testament to the triumph of American ingenuity and engineering — cementing aeroplanes as the fastest and safest form of sky travel. I dedicate this particular flight to my dear friend Eddie, and to all the work he's done to curtail whaling. What once seemed like a vast, untameable ocean grows smaller every day. For a mere six days from today, I will have crossed the uncrossable and arrived back in California. Never has it been more important that we are all part of one global mission, for the advancement of technology rapidly descends upon us.
(Board. Taxi. The plane rolls down the runway. You will not, it turns out, make the six days.)
Remember:
What you want to find out:
Your catchphrase: "a mere 6 miles from home" — this is the distance to the coast as you taxi for takeoff. Say it on takeoff.
When Thomas reads the breaking news, put on the white sash. You are now dead. Remain in the scene.
Ghost rules:
Your best clues to think about, privately:
BREAKING NEWS (when Thomas reads it):
FAMED AVIATOR IN TROUBLE. REPEATED RADIO CONTACT HAS GONE UNANSWERED. AUTHORITIES FEAR THE WORST. LAST SPOTTED NEAR HOWLAND ISLAND, FLYING AT TOO LOW OF AN ALTITUDE. PILOT AND CO-PILOT PRESUMED DEAD.
You did not reach the runway's end today.