though? Who would choose to keep them?”
“Because you know what to expect from the strings.” Tristian’s smile no longer reached as far as his eyes. “They make you do the same thing every day.” He sat down on the grass for a moment. It was the first time Serie had ever seen him tired. He picked up a twig, drawing idly in a patch of dirt. He looked up, “Sorry, where was I? Yes. . .you’re in a loop with very few surprises and changes. Some people are content to stay with that comfort. Real life can be unpredictable and chaotic at times, but that’s a part of the adventure. If we never experience that, we never grow, we never change.”
“I never thought about it like that.”
“Freedom from the strings has to be something you really want. Because life isn’t always easy. You are the one who is making the choices and sometimes they aren’t the right ones. But you choose to move ahead and to learn from your experiences.”
“Do you think I’m ready for that?”
“I should be asking you, Serie.”
Serie paused, leaning against the garden fence as she stared out into the darkness of the woods. In that moment she could walk into the woods and walk down the other path she had never been down. She could go beyond the confines of Kalan and see things she had never imagined. It both terrified and excited her.
The next morning, Serie walked through the palace gates at her usual time. Her head bowed to the guards on either side. She walked through the front garden, stopping when someone called her name.
“Serie.”
She turned around. Flynn strode towards her in his chainmail.
“Good morning, Flynn,” Serie said.
“I enjoyed our conversation the other evening, I look forward to many like it in our future.”
She held back her disappointment. Any conversation she would have with Flynn would be concocted by the strings. He could never ask her what she wanted to do or how she liked her tea. If it had been Flynn’s choice, would he have befriended Serie? He couldn’t tell her that.
He took hold of her hand, gazing at Serie, waiting for her to respond.
“I look forward to it too,” she replied, as she went on her way.
Serie lost herself in her work that afternoon. The dust stirred on the bookshelf in Maître’s study when Serie’s damp cloth wiped through it. She gazed over the gold-embossed titles of the leather-bound books that Maître had selected for his library: books of magic, history and fiction. She let her fingers slip over the titles—muttering their names under her breath. She had cleaned Maître’s study for four years now, but this was the first time she had ever paid any attention to what was in it.
The call of her strings weakened every day. They were a dull whisper in the back of her mind. It was easy to ignore their warnings. She pulled out a book from the shelf, the string attached to her right hand losing its battle against her free will.
The book wasn’t as well-kept as the other polished tomes on the shelf. The black cloth cover was torn, the parchment yellowed and crumbling at the edges. She admired the simplicity of it. How could something so ragged and ordinary contain knowledge within its pages—knowledge she had yet to learn? The strings nudged at her to put the book back, but her intrigue was too great. She was about to read the first page when the sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. Serie snapped the book shut and pocketed it in her apron. She picked up her cloth and continued to dust the shelves. The door creaked open as Maître entered. Serie turned and bowed to greet him, careful to not reveal the book.
“Good afternoon, Lord Maître,” Serie said.
“Miss Serie,” he said, as he strolled over to his desk. Serie waited for Maître to dismiss her. Maître picked up a letter on his desk, reading it as he sat down. Serie returned to her cleaning. She could feel the book knocking against her thigh. It burned in her pocket, calling to its master that it was missing from its rightful place on the shelf. Maître continued to read, failing to dismiss Serie. All she wanted was to leave the room safely, without Maître discovering that she was a thief. She continued to clean, though absent-minded. She had to stop herself from being startled when Maître addressed her again.
“I have paired you well, have I not?” Maître said.
Serie paused, she turned towards him, trying to hide the small bulge in her apron pocket. “Excuse me, my lord?”
“Your pairing, Serie, I am quite proud of it. You no longer have an excuse to be late now that you are paired with a knight in training. You will live in the heart of Kalan.” A wry smile appeared on his face as his fingers crumpled up the letter.
“Of course, my lord. I did not think about that convenience.”
“Kalan will be much safer for you than having to walk through the woods every day. I have heard that there are dangers lurking in the trees.”
Serie felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. Maître’s stare was intense on her face. She had shielded her contempt for so long she could not let it slip now. Not now that she was alone in Maître’s study.
“It is a long and lonely walk, my lord,” Serie said, her face lifted towards Maître. The two figures looked at each other; Serie with a blank demeanour, Maître with a glint of interest.
“That will be all for today, Miss Serie. You can go and fulfil your duties somewhere else.”
Serie let the strings take her from the study, only stopping to breathe when she reached the end of the corridor. Fear crept into her gut. Maître’s stare was imprinted in her mind. She took a moment to compose herself, her hand touching the book in her pocket.
If Maître had really suspected her of wrongdoing, her ligaments would be dangling in pieces in the city square. She would have to be more careful around him.
The rays of the afternoon sun followed Serie as she entered the woods. It was the first time she had felt safe all afternoon. The book had burned in her pocket all day, but she dared not remove it, in fear that Maître would walk around the corner. She had planned on taking it back before she left the palace, but her duties did not lead her anywhere near Maître’s study. Now she was alone, she pulled the book out from her pocket, ignoring the strings’ whispers to throw it away. She turned to the first page and attempted to read the cursive hand of the diary’s owner. But every time her mind tried to decipher the words on the page, she felt the strings’ push the words from her mind. She wasn’t allowed to know what was written.
Her bedroom was in darkness as Serie awoke. She was alone; her strings were still attached to her body. She had never stirred without Tristian’s help before.
She lay on her bed, waiting for the glorious moment when her strings would disappear, and Tristian would come. The strings detached themselves from her body. Serie’s tension eased as she was released from their control. She sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for Tristian to climb through the open window. She peered outside, not seeing anyone about. She attempted to climb out the window herself, pushing her arms on the windowsill, before she lifted her legs out the window. She fell headfirst into the rose bushes underneath her window. The thorns pierced her skin, clinging to her nightgown as she scrambled to free herself.
“Tristian,”
