Free Soul Stealer by Martin Booth Page B

Tim explained. “The river’s going to break its banks and you live underground.”
    “I appreciate your concern yet I am aware of the water rising,” Sebastian said.
    “How can you know?” Pip asked. “You hardly have any windows down there.”
    “Certainly,” Sebastian replied, “I have no conventional casements, yet there are other ways to see. Come, follow me.”
    Sebastian stepped through the opening behind the panel. Pip and Tim followed him, feeling with their feet for the first stones
     of the flight of steps leading to the passageway, remembering Sebastian’s previous warning that the steps were uneven and
     had been worn away in the middle over the centuries. Once at the bottom of the steps, they carefully followed Sebastian’s
     muffled footsteps along the passage to the heavy oaken door leading into his chamber. As Tim heard the latch open, a faint
     yellowish light lit up the corridor, illuminating the last five meters or so.
    On entering the chamber, it seemed unchanged since their last visit. The glow of the four candles set in their bronze wall
     mountings glimmered on the vaulting of the ceiling and shone on the series of chains and pulleys suspended from the central
     stone boss high above. On the oak table, the light touched the pewter bowlsand lent a translucence to an alabaster pestle and mortar. The racks of bottles and retorts glittered and the rows of leather-bound
     books looked as if they had been polished: the gold-leaf embossing of their titles shone as if recently applied.
    In the alcove where Sebastian slept, Pip noticed the sheepskin coverings were disturbed and kicked into a pile, suggesting
     that Sebastian had also been sleeping restlessly. She pressed her hand against the wall to see if it was damp. The stones,
     although cool, were quite dry. Between the flagstones of the floor there was no sign of any seepage. The air did not smell
     musty.
    “Welcome once again to my humble abode,” Sebastian said and, pointing to the wall, continued, “and observe my window on the
     river.”
    Protruding from the wall was a horizontally calibrated glass tube containing a red-colored orb.
    “This,” Sebastian exclaimed, “is connected by a bronze pipe to the river bank. At the far end is a valve. As the river rises,
     water presses on the valve and the air pressure within the tube increases, forcing the red marker to ascend. The delineation
     on the glass informs me when the fields are at risk of being inundated. As you can see, this is not presently the case.”
    “Neat!” Tim exclaimed. “When did you install it?”
    “I did not,” Sebastian replied. “My father did, as a means of warning when we should bring the animals in from the fields
     to high ground.”
    “What about the house?” Pip inquired.
    “Be not concerned. The house is never at risk,” Sebastian declared confidently. “It was built well above the flood plain.
     Now,” he continued, “I have been studyingsome of my father’s texts. While you are here, let me report something of my findings.”
    He opened a heavy, leather-bound tome resting on the table. As he did so, Pip and Tim could see its contents consisted of
     a manuscript written in neat cursive writing upon stiff cream-colored vellum. The ink was faded in places, the capital letters
     at the start of each paragraph either ornately curled or incorporated into an intricately colored illustration like a medieval
     religious manuscript. The colors looked as fresh and bright as if they had just been painted. Where gold leaf had been applied
     to the paint, it shone as if newly refined from its ore.
    “My mother illustrated this text for my father,” Sebastian remarked.
    “What was your mother’s name?” Pip asked.
    “Lady Tabitha Rawne,” Sebastian answered in a soft voice as he ran his finger lightly over an illustration.
    Tim tried to make sense of the manuscript.
    “You will not understand it, Tim,” Sebastian said. “It is written not only in