shame to Flynn’s life, by leaving him alone. But she could no longer live a life dictated by the strings.
“How do you know when you are ready to let go?”
“You don’t. You just step out and go for it.”
The final rays of sunrise faded as the sun cast a warm glow over the woods. She knew she was ready to let go—so why couldn’t she walk away from her strings? They didn’t have the same hold on her that they used to.
“Let me go, Tristian.”
“Are you sure? The strings will come back.”
“But I won’t let them control me.”
Tristian let go and they both stood and watched as the strings attached themselves to Serie. She sighed, ignoring their incessant tug towards Kalan.
“I don’t know what it is that is keeping me here, but I promise that I will be free. You haven’t wasted your time,” Serie proclaimed.
“I will hide in the woods for a week. If I’m not here when you free yourself, take the other path,” Tristian said.
Serie nodded as she walked towards Kalan and watched Tristian disappear.
She stood on the outskirts of the city square. The final preparations for the wedding ceremony were in full swing. Garlands of flowers were being draped around the stage. She remembered when she stood in the crowd on her brother’s wedding day, watching each couple approach the stage for Maître to give his blessing. On that day, she was excited about when her time would come. Little did she know then that she would change her mind.
She sighed, walking towards the change room where the other girls had been preparing. Each girl sat at her small table, dabbing on face paint from the various jars in front of them. A rack of white dresses stood near the open window.
Serie sat at her table, avoiding the strange looks from the others in the room. Her lateness had not gone unnoticed. Her strings lagged, as if they were about to give up on her. She let the strings paint her face, outline her eyes with liquid charcoal, and dab golden brown dust on her eyelids to make her green eyes sparkle. She dipped a brush into another pot—a rich crimson red touched her lips. Her long black hair was in waves down her back, the subtle string still visible from the crown of her head.
The other girls around her seemed excited about the event that lay ahead. They didn’t stop in protest. They didn’t fight against what they were being compelled to do. She had the urge to call out again, but she didn’t have the courage to do it. Her fear was eating her insides.
She glanced from the corner of her eye to the girl next to her. Her arms moved to fix the stray blonde hairs escaping her bun. Her hands moved to the flowered wreath sitting on the table; it slipped through the string as if nothing was there.
Serie had known these girls since they were at school together, but she wouldn’t say that any of them would be considered her friend. Their purpose together was to learn about their strings and how they were meant to relinquish their own desires and submit to their ruling. There was to be no wanting of anything that wasn’t what the strings, or for that matter Maître, had wanted for them. They had learnt to read, to speak appropriately, to be perfect puppets in Maître’s play. Maître had no time for sloppiness.
She picked up her own crown of purple flowers. The sweet scent overpowering her at first. Her hands froze when it reached her head. The image of the deep purple petals sparked her memory of the wildflowers that scattered the path in the woods. The path that she would no longer walk down and dream about places she had never been. The urge to run swelled in her chest as she dropped the crown into place. She pulled the white lace dress from its hanger and pulled it up around her legs and torso. One of the girls zipped it up before the strings nudged her out the door along with the brides-to-be.
A warm summer breeze welcomed Serie when she stepped outside the change room. The low buzz of violins could be heard from the square. Serie’s mother and father approached.
“You look lovely, Serie,” her mother said, clasping her hand.
Serie nodded, hiding the mix of fear and apathy that overwhelmed her.
“You were gone before we woke up,” her father said, taking Serie’s other hand.
“I had to be here to prepare.”
They approached the square and the hum of the violins increased. The square was filled with the families of the paired, and Maître’s officials.
“I’m looking forward to meeting Flynn again, a knight in training. Maître has blessed our daughter with a wonderful match,” her father exclaimed.
Serie nodded with the excitement she expected she should be showing, though her mind was still on her strings.
Maître appeared on stage, dressed in a black suit and silk shirt, his grey hair oiled back.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for joining me for this joyous day.”
Serie held back a cynical laugh. They had no choice but to join Maître to witness the marriages of the citizens of Kalan.
“Today we have fifty young women and men who have been paired together to start a new stage in their life. Our mothers and fathers will give their children to their new partner. We shall start the formalities momentarily.”
Serie walked with her parents to the procession line, eyeing the stage where all the men stood with their parents. Her stomach dropped. The more she considered what was about to happen, the more she couldn’t go through with it. She didn’t want Maître to decide another part of her life. He had decided what her profession was, what she had learnt at school. He had decided that humanity should be controlled by his strings.
She sighed, attempting to subdue the colour flushed in her cheeks. The first couple met each other in front of Maître. The parents let go of their children so that they could join hands with their soon-to-be spouse. They all shared a weak smile together. Her stomach dropped lower; her uneasiness intensified as she walked closer to the stage. She was about to become Flynn’s wife, one day bear his children and raise them to submit to their strings just like she did. The moments of freedom she had experienced over the past few months would become a distant memory. She would look back and wonder what would have happened if she had escaped.
Serie watched as the couples before her pledged their lives to the other. The dread in her stomach grew as she moved closer to the front of the line. Her strings quivered. Her heart began to race. Maître stood in front of her: she was next. She would be bound to Flynn. She would never leave Kalan. She would never be a Stringless.
“Serie Aubrey and Flynn Canlin,” Maître called.
Serie’s parents nudged her forward. She resisted the jerk of her strings at first, before she was dragged forward. She felt her heart pound in her chest—her strings failed to stifle it. She halted as she found herself standing in the middle of the stage. Flynn took hold of her hand and smiled. Maître towered over them from his step and watched Serie intensely. She could not waiver under his gaze. Fear kept her fixed in her place.
Maître turned his gaze to Flynn. “Flynn, I present to you Serie. Do you take her as your wife?”
“I do,” Flynn said.
Serie
