Unrivaled by Siri Mitchell Page B

servers. I’d been trying to get a good look at her face, but so far, I hadn’t been able to. After I’d come down from the balcony, I’d almost talked myself into going up to her and introducing myself. After all, I’d probably never look more presentable than I did right now. But as I stood there, she put a hand to her mouth and spun away from the server. Then she gathered up her long skirt and ran from the room.
    I watched to see who would go after her.
    No one did. No one even seemed to notice. It’s as if they’d all been put to sleep by the band’s version of a waltz.
    Putting my hand out to the man, an owner of some kind of store or other, I smiled. “It was nice meeting you. Please excuse me.” I could have walked around the edge of the room, but the fastest way to reach the door was across the dance floor. Taking up the rhythm of the waltz, I slid between dancingcouples, ducking once when I saw the girl I was supposed to dance with next.
    I’d expected to see the queen out in the hall, but the only people there were drivers, waiting for the ball to end. Where would she have gone? Where would I have gone if I’d wanted to get away from everyone?

    I had already circled the balcony once before I found her. She had pressed herself into a corner, back against the wall, far from the reach of the ballroom’s lights. She was crying the way my little sister had the year my mother told her Santa Claus wasn’t coming.
    As I walked up, I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket. “Those don’t sound like tears of joy.”
    She turned her head from me.
    I pressed the handkerchief into her hand. “Take it. I only carry one because that’s what someone told me gentlemen should do.”
    She tried to give it back.
    “Please, don’t tell me he was lying.”
    Though she still wouldn’t look at me, her fingers curled around it, and she lifted it to her cheeks.
    I thought . . . if she would just look at me . . . I thought it might be her . That girl from Olive Street.
    “Most girls would be over the moon, being named queen.”
    “I’m not like the others.” She said it fiercely, eyes glaring at me above the handkerchief as if I should know better.
    “So . . . if you’re not crying about being queen, then what are you crying about?”
    Her chin trembled as she dabbed at an eye. “No one liked my candy.” She’d barely finished speaking before she began to howl as if I’d just declared the sun would never rise again. I probablyshouldn’t have done it, but I put an arm around her shoulder. I knew what it was like to have people disappoint you.
    She clung to me, sobbing into my shiny silk lapels, burrowing into my shoulder, and tickling my nose with all the hair she’d piled on top of her head. But I didn’t mind. She smelled delicious, just like caramel. It was a scent that matched the color of her hair. For one sweet moment, she stayed within the curve of my arm, but then she pushed away from me, turning once more, as if to hide her tears.
    “ No one liked it?” Didn’t everyone like candy? What was wrong with the people in St. Louis?
    Her chin dipped. “They threw it all away.”
    Something wasn’t making any sense. “You mean you made candy and you brought it here ? To the ball?”
    She cupped the handkerchief over her mouth and held it to her nose, nodding.
    Making candy seemed like a strange thing for a queen to have to do. “ I never had the chance to try it. And I consider myself an expert in candy.”
    “You do? You like candy?”
    “ Like candy? You could say it’s become my profession.”
    “Would you—would you like to try some?” The glow of the ballroom reflected off the tears that had made a path down her cheek. If she would just turn her head a little bit more . . . maybe I would recognize her.
    “I would love to try some.”
    Her chin tipped up as a trembling smile crept up her face. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and for the first time that evening, she looked up