Читать книгу The Stringless - Alisha Walkerden - Страница 4

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,” Tristian said.

Serie forced herself to look at Tristian again; her strings fought against her rebellion.

“What else can I do? I can’t do anything but what the strings tell me,” Serie stammered, as a heated rage burned inside her for the first time in her life. She wanted to scream and hit something, but she couldn’t. The strings stifled her temper, causing her breath to become haggard.

“Serie, the strings didn’t make you say that.”

She stared at Tristian; her rage softened in the warmth of his gaze.

“Why do you want to free me from my strings?” Serie asked. Her strings urged her to not trust anything he said.

“Why don’t you want to be free of them?”

“I never said that I didn’t.”

Tristian smiled. “Serie, I can see it in you, you are in this battle against what the strings are telling you to do and what your heart tells you to do. I have seen the strings ruin peoples’ lives because they have resigned themselves to thinking that this is what they deserve. That this is how they should live. Is this the life that you want to live?”

Serie fought hard against her strings to give the response she wanted to give. In Tristian’s presence, their hold on her was weakened.

“No, I don’t want to live like that. I want to live a life that is not dictated by the strings,” Serie said.

She lifted her face from the shadows to reveal her broken nose. She watched as sadness brimmed in Tristian’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. Let me fix it.”

Tristian reached out his hand to Serie’s face. She pulled back.

“Don’t be afraid, I can help you.”

Serie dropped her guard but stood rooted to the spot as Tristian’s hand touched her broken nose. At his touch, the strings vanished, leaving Serie to fall. Tristian caught her and laid her down on the ground. She couldn’t move. All she could see was Tristian covering her nose as he whispered words in another tongue.

“What. . .?” was all she could manage to croak.

“All done,” Tristian said, moving his hand from her face.

Her strings returned as Tristian stood up. Their hold on Serie was the weakest she had ever felt it. Without thinking, her hand reached towards her nose. It was warm; the cartilage had moved to where it had always belonged.

“How did you do that?” Serie gasped.

“As I said, I have the power to help you. If you let me, I can help you walk free of your strings. It won’t be easy. Sometimes it will hurt. You will start to see the world in ways you never thought possible. Your life will never be the same.”

Serie didn’t answer at first. She was in two minds. She knew nothing about Tristian, other than the fact that he had no strings, and potentially had magic. How could she trust a stranger who represented everything that she was told was wrong? There was something in him, though, that broke through the monotony of a life with the strings. She felt alive, in a way she had never felt before. In those few moments with Tristian, the fear that normally plagued her had ceased. She couldn’t live a life of fear and subservience any more.

“I want you to help me, Tristian. I want to be free.”

“And you will. But for now, you should be on your way home. I’ll see you later,” Tristian said.

“Are you alright, Serie?” her mother asked as she sat down at the table. “You seem to be a little distracted this evening.”

“I’m fine, Mother. I was thinking about a man I met in the woods today.”

“Serie, your pairing is still a few months away. Don’t distract yourself with a man who may not become your partner.”

“It has nothing to do with my pairing, Mother. This man, Tristian, he doesn’t have any strings,” Serie said.

Her mother’s fork halted halfway to her mouth.

“Serie, don’t be ridiculous, no one can live without strings. The strings are our protection from ourselves. We would all be dead without them.”

“But Maître doesn’t have any strings and he’s not dead.”

“Maître is our lord and our protector. The strings cannot control him because he couldn’t protect us.”

Serie pushed her laden fork away, refusing the strings’ urge to take another bite. Her mother, however, returned to her dinner as if the conversation had never happened.

“How was your day, Serie?”

She didn’t answer at first—the internal struggle between her and the strings raged on. They wanted her to admit to being late. She pushed past their bidding.

“It was fine, like every other day.”

Serie pulled back the covers, sighing as her head hit the pillow. Just before the strings forced her mind to sleep, she thought of Tristian and wondered how he could free her of her strings.

“Serie, wake up.”

She groaned. As she stirred, she felt a hand on her shoulder, softly shaking her to wake. She had never been woken by anything except her strings. She waited for her strings to move her body.

“Serie, open your eyes,” the voice said as the speaker removed their hand from her shoulder.

She did as she was told. Instead of the light flooding through her window, there was darkness. The person who had woken her flicked the switch of her lamp. The dull light called Tristian’s face from the shadows.

“What are you doing here?” Serie gasped.

“I’m here to help you. Whatever happens next, remember to breathe,” he said.

Serie’s gaze fell to her side, expecting to see a string attached to her hand, but it wasn’t there.

“What. . .?” she mumbled. She tried to lift her arm, but a sharp pain shot through it.

“I know it hurts, Serie, but you need to start moving for yourself. Your body hurts because the strings have always controlled it. Just try to lift a finger.”

Serie breathed, clearing her mind of everything but the simple task she was asked to do. She focused her energy on her right index finger. A surge of energy zapped through her arm as her finger hovered in the air. It remained there for only a few moments before she placed it back down.

“Great job. Don’t stop now.”

“It hurts, Tristian,” Serie croaked.

“The pain will go away soon, just keep moving.”

Before the hour was over, she had lifted her arm from the bed, allowing it to drop with a thud.

“You”ve made great progress tonight. We’ll continue more tomorrow.”

“Why can’t we keep going?” Serie asked, as she lifted her arm again.

“The hour is almost over. Your strings will be returning soon.”

“I thought you got rid of them like you did yesterday.”

“The strings go away if I touch you. But the hour before dawn every night the strings disappear, so they can be maintained. It’s a flaw in Maître’s curse.”

“How come I haven’t woken up before?”

“The strings’ magic prevents you from waking up until they return.”

“I don’t want them to come back.”

Tristian smiled. “You aren’t strong enough to walk away from them yet. Give it time. You will be free of them.”

Tristian turned off the lamp as he tiptoed towards the window. Sunlight crept through, casting shadows across the floor. Serie watched as her strings appeared through the ceiling and descended to the place where they had left their victim.

“Don’t struggle,” Tristian murmured.

Serie could do nothing as the strings pierced through her flesh. Her mind became hazy. Her arm refused to move when she willed it to.

“This won’t last forever,” Tristian assured her, as he climbed out the window.