Raina Blair meant to rule Narnia, but tonight she could not even find a bed. She stood in a snowy courtyard with nothing but the clothes she woke in. Her silver hair held frost. Her breath clouded the cold air. She had crossed into this land certain of one thing: the throne belonged to her. No one here knew her face. No one would open a door. A white tower rose above her, tall and pale against the dark. Turrets of blue and purple crowned its top. Gold trim framed each narrow window. A carved flower marked the great door at its base. Warm light glowed behind the upper glass. Someone lived there. Someone slept warm while she froze. Raina tried the door first. It held fast. She knocked, then pounded. No one came. The wind pushed through her thin sleeves. Her fingers went stiff. If she stayed outside, she would not last the night. A queen frozen in a courtyard would rule nothing. She stepped back and studied the stone. The carved flower door sat locked, but a servant's window stood cracked on the lower wall. Raina climbed a stack of frost-slick crates beneath it. Her boot slipped. She caught the sill and pulled herself up. The wood scraped her palms raw. She squeezed through the gap and dropped onto a cold floor inside. The tower breathed heat. A stair curled up toward the glowing rooms above. Raina climbed, quiet, testing each step. At the top she found a suite fit for royalty. A wide bed waited under a canopy. Candles burned low on a carved table. Someone had prepared this room and left it. She pressed her cold hands to the warm hearth stones and nearly wept from relief. Then she saw the tray. Fresh bread. A full cup, still steaming. Someone had been here moments ago. Someone would return. Raina froze with her hand on the cup. Boots sounded on the stair below. Slow. Climbing. Whoever owned this room now climbed toward it, and she stood inside with wet boots and a stranger's face. She had a choice. Run down and be caught fleeing like a thief. Or stay, and claim the room as though it were already hers. Raina set down the cup. She smoothed her frost-damp hair and lifted her chin. A queen did not hide. She turned to face the door as the footsteps reached the landing. The latch clicked. Warm, safe, and no longer exposed, she now faced the far harder problem: convincing whoever entered that this tower, and this land, belonged to her.