All expectations flew out the window once she caught the Security Classification on her dossier. NSA-TOPSECRET/SCI

Sensitive, Compartmentalised Information.

Probably some weird-ass plan to spy on Danish expatriates living in Maryland.

The NSA put her up in a non-descript, single-storey house in Potomac. Corner unit nearly half a mile from the nearest neighbour. Neatly-trimmed backyard lawn overlooking the expanse of a forest. Her duffel bags and phone mysteriously appeared in the living room, probably bugged and monitored to the high heavens. After years of waking to the noise of stomping boots and hollering NCOs, the chirp of woodland thrushes and pindrop silence indoors sounded painful to her ears. Her nails grated on the simple plywood Ikea table. One year of quiet. She wondered how many minutes it'd take before forgotten voices made themselves heard in the silence.

Study, study. Anna keyed her first appointment into Google Calendar: panel interview in two days. A stack of notes she had to memorise. Instead of finding dossiers on Danish expatriates, Anna came face-to-face with a lengthy discourse on mid-19th century European History. Like out of a high school textbook. You gotta be kidding me. Anna started writing down points in a crumpled army-green notebook. The Napoleonic wars. Industrial Revolution. Age of Sail. Empires and Kingdoms. She made it to North Sea trading routes before the Dossier inexplicably veered towards the Kingdom of Arendelle. King Runeard's dynasty and its eventual transition to a Republican democracy. Followed by a referendum that ended with a merger into Norway.

She made it through half the stack. What else could be so important? The next page revealed a full-colour painting of Queen Elsa I of Arendelle. Runeard's granddaughter and the last reigning Monarch of Arendelle. A blow-by-blow personal history consolidated from multiple primary sources filled the rest of the folder. Records from the Vatican archives. Personal correspondences and diplomatic traffic. The myths and rumours behind Queen Elsa's short reign. Anna's eyes narrowed at the word witch and sorceress mentioned multiple times.

Oh god, they call every woman they disagree with a "witch" in those times. Only the throne saved her from a pyre.

Of particular note was the lengthy political essay in a Cambridge PhD dissertation speculating reasons behind Queen Elsa's decision to intervene in the Napoleonic wars on behalf of the Sixth Coalition. An ill-fated expedition that all but turned the tides of battle and ultimately resulted in Elsa's untimely demise.

This is a fucking crock of shit. Anna rolled her eyes. Scribbling a few more cursory notes before the weight on her eyelids won out.

Despite fearing the silence at night and the moonlight's ghostly glow through pastel curtains. Anna slept like a log for the first time in three years.

She nearly missed her alarm the next morning, dragging her bedsore ass from the covers and into the backyard for a sunrise. That disc of gold which kissed upon a pine-strewn horizon. Peace stilled her heart at the permanence. Her heart squeezed tight as she imagined the young Queen Elsa looking at the same sunrise from centuries past. Perhaps she stood on the same trimmed lawns in her palace gardens. Probably had a legion of servants waiting hand and foot upon her.

Anna's phone chimed. She'd missed two texts from Marie last night.

Marie-DONOTREPLY (11:51pm) : Yooo Anna grats' on getting out of the army - if you're ever in the DC metro we should totally meet up
Marie-DONOTREPLY (01:22am) : I miss you, btw

Anna shoved the phone back into her pajamas pocket before she could feel anything stupid. Or give into that well of tears behind her eyelids. The house suddenly appeared thousands of square feet larger than it really was. Vast and cold and empty despite all its modern comforts. Her chest let out a shudder. She changed into Army PT gear despite swearing never to wear it again and ran five miles through woodland paths. Plugging out her ears with Taylor Swift telling her what a Cruel Summer awaited. She heaved and wheezed through the last uphill stretch back to her quarters. Regretting missing all those damn morning PT runs. Ache in her legs forgotten at the awaiting Chevy Tahoe. Suited driver on the curb reminding about the panel interview.

"Yea, yea," Anna waved him off, "just give me a minute to shower."

Within a few minutes, Anna traded in her Army uniform for a starched white blouse and pantsuit. Combat boots for high heels. From sheer muscle memory, she bunned up her hair without thinking, forgetting there's no one preventing her from leaving it down. Whatever. The driver barely took a second glance as Anna's routed through the entire harrowing procedure again. Speeding way past the limit and getting hurled down the NSA's cavernous basement. Phone and purse confiscated. Not even a pen or the notebook she'd brought along for reference.

The panel interviewers were already set up in a conference room. Sound-insulating fabric panels lined all four windowless walls. Hans sat her before three real academic types. Bearded man in a tweed jacket. A woman, reincarnation of Ruth Ginsburg, judicial robes and all. Another middle-aged woman who spoke in a halting French accent. Already, Anna regretted not taking her notes seriously. They quizzed her on every sentence of the dossier. Emphasis on Arendelle's history. It didn't appear to be a test; the interviewers filled in gaps where her memory failed. Ruth Ginsburg was particularly gentle with her, addressing her as sweetie. She found herself relaxing into the chair as the interview turned out more like a conversation. Before her heart caught in her throat as the questions took a turn towards the curriculums she'd developed.

"What we're getting at, sweetie," Ruth Ginsburg asked in a croaky voice, "how you would communicate with Queen Elsa. In the current context of a modern life. If she was magically transported right before your eyes."

First of all, I'd probably thank her for giving me this job. And ask what she did to trigger all these NSA people.

Anna blinked once as years of theoretical instruction filtered through the air-conditioning's ominous hum. An expository lecture commenced from the tip of Anna's tongue. Victorian-era power dynamics. The distance a Queen held towards her subjects, least of all a modern woman like herself. Gender roles. She even went into subtle examples of formal and informal speech inherent to the Danish language. All the while, the interviewers wrote notes and requested clarification of key points. Anna soon caught herself blabbering on and on. It was too easy to get carried away like this. Too easy to forget her skills were meant for repairing people broken by war. She cut herself off mid-sentence with a diatribe about courtly speech hanging off her lips.

"Do continue, Miss Anna," Tweed Jacket prodded her.

Anna shifted about in her seat. Static from the suit clinging to her skin, "I really want to know what this is all about. Lots of cloak-and-dagger stuff and for what? A mid 19th century Monarch who's been dead for a hundred years? Does the NSA want to redecorate her grave?"

"Sweetie-"

Hans's voice shot in from the room's corner, "I think we've had enough for Anna today, haven't we?"

Ruth Ginsburg piped in, "We do, actually. Over to you now, Mr Andersen."

All three academics got up and showed themselves from the room. Leaving Anna alone with Hans. She couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. Not even when he snapped his fingers at her.

"I'm not saying another word until you tell me what's going on."

"And here you've already said a dozen," Hans sneered.

Anna looked up at him. Arms crossed and lips pursed in silent defiance.

"I could tell you what's going on, but you wouldn't believe me. None of them usually do," he let out a coarse chuckle, "how about I show you instead?"

She shrugged and got up after him. Poker face concealing the rapid thump of her heartbeat. A concealed panel in the wall led into a darkened corridor. Glow of a window a few steps ahead. Her throat wound tight at the beep of a heart rate monitor. The faint scent of antiseptic. When the hiss of a ventilator hit her ears, Anna teetered on the verge of fainting. Watery eyes shot wide open at the window in a featureless corridor. Buried deep within the country for no one to discover but herself.

Single Hospital ward.

A woman no older than herself, laid on the bed. Gently breathing. Tubes and wires streaming everywhere.

Gentle splay of ice-white blonde hair upon a pillow.

Anna covered her mouth as a million implications spun through her mind. The vacant space tilted on its axis. She wanted to vomit.

"This is Elsa Agnarrsdatter," Hans whispered, as though speaking any louder would wake her, "and we've brought her to the 21st Century."