Free Soul Stealer by Martin Booth

the mud,” Tim went on, “and ignited.”
    “Ignis fatuus,”
Sebastian said. “The fire of fools. It has misguided many unwary travelers into mires and quicksand, they who have followed
     its blue light assuming it to be a distant habitation.”
    “Show us what you found,” Tim suggested.
    Pip took the shard out of her pocket and handed it to Sebastian.
    “The gas burned green,” Pip butted in.
    “This is Roman,” Sebastian declared, “a fragment of what is known as Samian ware. It was made in Gaul, which you now call
     France.” He held it under Tim’s reading lamp.
    “The marsh gas burned green,” Pip repeated, her exasperation growing.
    “What is it?” Tim asked.
    “It bears a depiction of the chimera,” Sebastian said, “a Greek mythological monster with the head of a lion, the body of
     a goat and the ability to breathe fire.”
    Pip was beginning to lose patience and said, “Excuse me, can we leave the archaeology lecture and get back to the here and
     now? The point is that, by the pool, the pendant went clear as window glass. The marsh gas burned green and, although it was
     lost on my computer-nerd sibling here, the sheep had the teeth of a tiger and…” She fell silent as the implication of what
     she had just said dawned on her.
    “I saw the chimera,” she half whispered. “Didn’t I?”
    There came a knock on Tim’s bedroom door and Mrs. Ledger looked in. “Supper time,” she announced then, seeing Sebastian, added,
     “Would you like to join us, Sebastian?”
    “Yes, thank you,” Sebastian replied, smiling politely.
    “I see you’ve had your hair cut,” Mrs. Ledger observed. “Quite a change, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
    The moment she had gone, Sebastian’s smile vanished. “You say the marsh gas burned with a
green
flame?”
    “Yes,” Pip confirmed. “As green as…”
    It was then she remembered the ancient lantern Malodor had used, its flame burning the color of weak emerald.
    “And did this noxious gas reach your nostrils?”
    Pip nodded apprehensively.
    “In that case,” Sebastian continued, “it explains your vision of the sheep. They were not, as it were, wolves in sheep’s clothing
     and truly carnivorous, but a projection of your fears,” he explained. “You saw what, at that moment, you most feared, albeit
     you knew it not.”
    “You mean they were just a figment of my imagination?” Pip asked.
    “Not exactly,” Sebastian replied. “More a figment of your imagination after it had been manipulated.”
    Pip stopped on the landing, her hand on the wall to steady herself.
    “Manipulated!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
    “Influenced,” Sebastian replied curtly.
    “How?” Pip asked, in a tremulous voice.
    “Perhaps by the marsh gas.”
    “Perhaps!” Pip repeated. “You mean you don’t know?”
    Sebastian did not respond.
    “It’s not Malodor returning?” Pip half whispered.
    Still, Sebastian did not answer but, as they descended the stairs, he advised, “Do not approach the pool unless I accompany
     you.”
    “Bet your boots we won’t!” Tim replied.
    To this, Sebastian responded, “Why should I wager my footwear?”
    Three plates of poached eggs, baked beans, chips and crisp slices of bacon were already on the kitchentable when they sat down. Sebastian looked at the beans and prodded them tentatively with his fork. Mrs. Ledger watched him.
    “Don’t you like baked beans, Sebastian?” she asked.
    “Yes,” Sebastian replied as Tim nudged his ankle under the table with his foot. “I find them to be most…” Tim kicked harder.
     “They’re very nice.”
    Mrs. Ledger sat down opposite them with a cup of tea.
    “Tell me, Sebastian,” she said, “what’s your surname?”
    “Gillette,” said Tim.
    “I’m sure Sebastian’s got a tongue of his own, Tim,” Mrs. Ledger remarked tersely. “And where exactly do you live now, Sebastian?
     I know you once lived here.”
    “At Pleasance Farm,” Sebastian