“I’m going to let go of you now, and the strings will come back,” Tristian said.
All Serie could muster was a whimper as Tristian’s hold loosened. She struggled to support the weight of her body. Her knees began to buckle under her; they had never carried it before. She gritted her teeth to hold back the cries of agony that wanted to escape. Her knees dropped as her body slid down the tree in jolted movements. Her cotton shirt failed to shield her back from the abrasive tree bark.
The strings’ return caught her by surprise as they pierced through her flesh and attached themselves to their captive ligaments. The pain ebbed away as Serie was forced to stand straight.
“What’s happening?” Serie asked, feeling an ache of panic in her chest.
“They won’t let you go that easily.”
“But if they were gone completely, I would be dead.”
“Maître told you that so you would fear freedom.”
“I’ve seen him de-string people, and they die.”
“It’s his cruel way to stop anyone rebelling against him. He is using the strings’ power to rip you apart.” Tristian’s expression fell. “If I left you here, without your strings, you would be dead, because you don’t know how to function without them. But you will though.”
Serie’s curiosity deepened at his words. Her thoughts were interrupted by the strings’ violent tug to take her to work.
“I must go, or Lord Maître will punish me.”
Tristian stepped aside, smiling as he gave her a short nod. “I will see you later, Serie.”
Her feet pelted down the path. She allowed herself one last look at Tristian before he disappeared around the bend.
Serie rushed through the cobblestone streets of Kalan. Her panic heightened as she became entwined with a group of children marching towards the school yard. It was inevitable that she would be late now.
She hurried through the hordes of people in the city streets as quickly as she could, occasionally having to stop to greet the people who said hello. The strings eased her pace at the palace gates. She stopped to remove the mud caked on her skirt; it crumbled to the ground, leaving blotchy stains on the pale blue fabric. She sighed. Her head bowed to the guards when she passed through the gate. She rushed up the stairs, stumbling through the service entrance.
“Miss Serie,” a voice echoed down the hall. “You are late.” She dropped to her knees as Maître approached.
“My deepest apologies, my Lord Maître,” she said, as the strings pulled her up to stand. Her head dropped as she attempted to avoid Maître’s icy stare.
“What happened to you? You’re a mess,” he said, pointing to the stains on her skirt.
Her jaw clenched as she pulled the truth away from her lips.
“I fell over, my lord,” she replied. It took everything she had to hold back a tremor of fear.
Maître approached her. She tried to relax. Maître stood inches from her. His enquiring stares rooted her to the spot, more than her strings did in that moment. She focused on her breathing, trying to keep it at its normal pace. Her eyes drifted to Maître’s grey hair, neatly combed over his bony skull. She avoided meeting his stare, in fear that it would give her away.
Maître pulled a wooden cross from around his neck. His bony fingers curled around the control bar. Serie’s body tensed reluctantly, as her strings came into Maître’s full control.
“Tardiness is unacceptable behaviour, Serie. That and your appearance give evidence that you have ignored the guidance of your strings. I will spare you. . .this time, but you must always submit to the guidance of the strings for your own safety. To ensure that you remember the next time you feel like being recklessly rebellious. . .”
Serie was fixed in her position. She felt her mouth clench tighter, imprisoning any sound she would make inside her. Maître raised the control bar higher. Her ligaments lifted into the air. Her strings dangled Serie inches from the ground. Her mouth refused to let out her screams, even as her flesh began to pull away from the bone. She could do nothing but endure pain worse than anything she could ever imagine.
Maître dropped the bar. Serie’s limp body crumpled to the floor. Her nose cracked as she fell face first on the wooden floorboards.
“Now clean this mess up and get to work,” Maître demanded, before he retreated to his study.
Serie waited until the footsteps faded. The pain in her body subsided as she stood up. Her hand moved itself to her nose to stop the blood.
Two
The sky darkened, as clouds rolled over the fading sun. Serie left the palace. Her head lowered as she made her way through the emptying streets. It was almost a relief that she was leaving later than she normally did. There would be fewer people around to gawk. It was going to be confusing enough to explain her appearance to her mother.
Though she knew she shouldn’t think about Tristian, he had invaded her thoughts all day. Her thoughts normally consisted of the flowers in the woods, the monotony of her life and her growing impatience of the strings’ control.
The moon cast a dull light through the canopy as Serie entered the woods. She stopped, relying on the reduced urgency of her strings, and took her time on the journey home.
She forced her hand to touch her nose and lightly press the swelling. The dull ache remained. She dreaded to imagine what a de-stringing would be like.
She paused at the next turn and saw Tristian waiting for her in the same place he had been that morning. Her nose throbbed again—leading Serie to drop her head, as she intended to follow the path home like she did every other day.
“I’m sorry I made you late, Serie,” Tristian called after her.
She kept walking, hearing Tristian’s footsteps behind her. She stopped, allowing Tristian to catch up. Her strings beckoned her forward. She took a few more steps, before she stopped again, but did not look back.
Tristian caught up to her and blocked her way.
“I can’t talk to you,” Serie heard herself say.
“But you want to.”
“I shall not want anything for myself, sir.”
“Spoken like a true puppet.”
“I am not a puppet,” Serie said through gritted teeth. She forced herself to look at his face. Tristian’s lips curled to his eyes and his warmth pierced through Serie again. She felt the tension in her body ease as the bid of the strings weakened.
“You’re fighting back from the strings’ pull—a true puppet would never do that. You want to be free, admit it.”
Serie considered that thought. She wanted to be rid of the haze in her mind that made her susceptible to the strings’ bidding. She wanted to let the thoughts deep inside her be spoken without an internal struggle. She wanted to stand there and talk to Tristian, without the feeling of reproach that the strings drilled into her. The words sat on her tongue—she wanted to be free.
“I must be getting home,” Serie said.
“Why? So you can help your mother cook dinner and wash up and go to bed, so you can wake up and do the same thing all over again tomorrow?”
“How do you know that?” Serie asked, feeling her cheeks blush.
“That’s all anyone ever does,”