I spent the night cataloging everything I could remember about the novel, pacing the enormous bedroom until my small legs ached. Now I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to look like a normal five-year-old girl and not a terrified adult trapped in a child's body. I found myself in front of a portrait hanging in the sitting room. The painting showed a woman with the same platinum hair as mine, though her eyes were a warm hazel. She wore a crown and a gentle smile that made my chest ache. The Empress, my mother, though I had no memories of her. She had died giving birth to me, and the Emperor had loved her so much that her loss had made him vulnerable to the dark enchantment.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the portrait. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. But I will save myself. I promise." The painted eyes seemed to stare back at me with infinite sadness.

The door opened without a knock. Two women entered, their faces carefully neutral masks. The older one had gray streaking her dark hair, pulled back in a severe bun. The younger could not have been more than twenty, with soft features and eyes that kept darting away from mine.

"Good morning, Your Highness," the older maid said. Her tone was polite but cold, the kind of courtesy extended because protocol demanded it. "It is time to prepare for the day."

I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it. What would a five-year-old Charlotte say? The original had been timid and quiet, always trying not to be a burden. I needed to maintain that image, at least for now. "Thank you," I said softly, testing the sound of my new voice. It came out high and childish, so different from what I was used to that it nearly startled me into silence.

The younger maid approached with a basin of warm water. As she helped me wash, her movements were stiff and overly formal. I kept my face blank, though their silent judgment was a palpable thing in the room. They pitied me, and worse, they feared me. Not because of anything I had done, but because of what my existence represented to the Emperor.

The washing and dressing took longer than I expected. The clothes were elaborate, with layers of silk and lace that required multiple pairs of hands to fasten properly. As the older maid pulled a brush through my hair, she tugged just a little too hard. I flinched, a small, involuntary movement.

"Be still, Your Highness," she said, her voice sharp. There was no apology in it, only impatience.

I met her eyes in the mirror. For a fleeting second, I saw a flicker of resentment there, the kind reserved for a difficult chore. It was a small thing, a tiny crack in her professional facade, but it was the first concrete conflict I had faced. This was not just pity, it was dislike. I was an inconvenience.

When they finally finished, I looked like a porcelain doll, beautiful and fragile. "Your breakfast will be served in the sitting room, Your Highness," the older maid said, her mask of neutrality firmly back in place. "Please ring if you need anything else."

They left quickly, almost fleeing. The door closed with a soft click, and I was alone again. I moved to the window and looked out over the palace grounds. From this height, I could see elaborate gardens stretching toward a distant wall, fountains catching the morning light, and guards patrolling the perimeter. Everything was breathtakingly beautiful, and everything was a cage.

Think, I told myself. You know. Use it. To test the boundaries of my gilded prison, I took one of the heavy, leather-bound storybooks from the shelf and walked into the adjoining dressing room. I placed it carefully behind a row of shoes, a spot no one would look unless they were searching for it. If the book was back on its shelf by tomorrow, it meant the servants were meticulously thorough, perhaps even spying. If it remained missing, it meant their duties were more superficial, and my isolation offered a degree of privacy I could exploit.

I closed my eyes and reached for the memories that were not mine. They came in fragments, disjointed and incomplete, filtered through the understanding of a very young child. But some things stood out clearly. The Emperor never visited these chambers. The servants were kind enough, but distant. Charlotte had no friends, no allies, and no one who would speak on her behalf when her father finally decided she was too painful a reminder to keep alive. In the novel, her execution had been swift and public, a message to the court that even blood ties meant nothing to the Emperor's justice.

I went to the small writing desk by the window. If I was going to survive in this world, I needed a plan. I pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill, my adult mind wrestling with the unfamiliar tools. My handwriting came out shaky and childish, but I could read it well enough.

Timeline: Current age, five. Execution at seventeen. That gives me twelve years.

Goal: Survive. Secondary goal: Break father's curse, earn his affection.

Obstacles: The Emperor's enchantment makes him hate me. Court politics will frame me for treason eventually. Original heroine Isolde arrives when I am thirteen.

Assets: Knowledge of future events. Adult intellect. Original plot I can manipulate.

I stared at the words, then added one more line, my hand trembling as I wrote it.

First step: Meet the Emperor. Make him see me.

The thought of facing him terrified me. But hiding in these chambers would only delay the inevitable. If I wanted to change my fate, I had to act. I had to make the Emperor of Ice notice his forgotten daughter.