Chapter One: Burglars?

SIGRUN

I was half asleep when I heard some muffled whispers.

I probably forgot to turn off the TV before going to bed. I groaned lazily. I was too comfortable to get up.

With my eyes still closed, I tried to communicate with the TV telepathically to turn itself off. But because inanimate objects actually have a mind of their own no matter what Science tells you, it didn’t.

More muffled TV whispers.

I cut back on another groan. This was one of those moments where I wish I had super powers–mind control, to be precise.

And was it not supposed to be summer? It was freezing in here. Strange. I sighed and nestled deeper into the sheets.

Immediately, I tensed when I suddenly heard a loud whisper from a squeaky voice. “Is she awake?”

Wait, what? That voice sounded closer than it should.

Another voice snapped. “Don’t be daft, Conny. You can see that she’s not.”

“Aye, aye, wha’ever. There’s no need to be mean, Rita.”

I went rigid with fear. There could be only one explanation for this: burglars. (Although I’d never thought there could ever be female burglars with Irish-sounding accents named Conny or Rita–but what did I know?)

“Oh, shut it, Conny. Ye’ll wake her up, ye oaf!”

Okay, then I was wide awake. I kept my eyes shut though. I figured the burglars wouldn’t be too pleased to know that I was awake. I thought of the baseball bat I kept by my couch, but that was too far away.

Darn it.

I made a mental inventory of my worldly possessions in my studio apartment that may or may not be worth stealing: a half-finished plate of Thai takeout; a buy-two-get-one-free coupon from my favorite pizza place (which I’d planned to use the next day); an expired credit card; my small bag of paint palettes and paint brushes ( these had cost me a small fortune, by the way); an uncompleted copy painting of The Mona Lisa ( I’d also planned to finish this the next day in time for my art class assignment) and; twelve dollars in my purse.

I silently prayed they wouldn’t take the silver chain I’d taken off earlier and kept beside my bed lamp. It was the only thing I had left of my mom.

“Oh, oh, aye. Sorry!” the voice which– judging by the squeakiness–I’m guessing was Conny’s, whispered apologetically.

“Ye is always sorry, Conny. An’ prepare de bath. She’ll be up pretty soon.”

Prepare the bath?

A sad sigh. “Poor Sigrùn. I know she’s scared of being made to marry her betrothed Varul, but she didn’ have ta run away again. Who knows what would have happened ta her if the guards hadn’ found her on time.”

Uh…hold up, people. Betrothed? Run away? Okay, what was going on here? What kind of burglars were they? Then a scary thought came to me. Oh my God. What if they were escapees from a mental hospital that had somehow found their way into my apartment? But as soon as the thought materialized, I discarded it because that didn’t make sense. If they were mental patients, then how the hell did they know my name?

Their conversation was getting weirder by the minute. And so was my internal monologue.

A weary sigh. A voice hissed. “Get on with it, Conny. Ye talk too much. The wedding is in a few hours and the queen is already mad with her as it is. We have ta make sure she’s ready before then!”

“Oh! Tis true! Help me get these filthy clothes off her.”

What? I don’t think so, I thought. Think, Sigrùn, think.

Okay, so far the only thing I’d been able to ascertain was that there were just two of them. Hopefully I hadn’t forgotten what I’d learned from those Jeet Kune Do classes my best friend, Eva, made me take with her last two summers. Maybe I could take out one of them and race for my phone on the couch and call 911. Satisfied with my plan, I was already preparing to do just that—until my brain shifted into ‘over thinker’ mode.

But what if they had weapons like–like clubs and, I shuddered even thinking of this, guns? And–and what if I managed to get to my phone but am unable to call the police because my phone ran out of service at that exact moment? What if–what if–

I realized that I was beginning to hyperventilate so I tried to coach myself with a breathing exercise I’d seen somewhere—(probably on one of those numerous health magazines I loved to binge-read)—one time. Apparently, counting numbers and thinking happy thoughts was a good breath regulator.

Okay, Sigrùn, breathe. One, two, rainbows and sunshine, three, four, cakes and chocolates.

After a few seconds, it was beginning to work–that was until I felt a hand on my torso area. Then I opened my eyes and screamed bloody murder.