"Stay, stay," cried Caspar as he stared at the sylph in wonder. "It's only a sprite. But she's not supposed to be here. Her place is in the Marshes of Morag, leagues from here."
"That is true," said Anest, "but nevertheless her spring arose here in Belloc's garden." He sighed and shook his head. "She cannot remain here. She must return to the Marshes."
He held up the phial to extend it to her when the light caught in its waters began ringing like crystal. Acting like some mad, wild thing, the sylph lunged for the phial, grabbing it from him, and stared into its depths with aghast desperation etched into her mien. The light flickered uncertainly for a moment like a guttering candle. Then, with a plaintive tinkling, it vanished as though receding into the distance. At the same instant his talisman reacted, glowing briefly, an odd, tingling sensation touching his chest . . . and then it stopped.
Anest gaped and watched the sylph uncertainly, half expecting her to expire right then and there. He was about to speak when she caught him entirely by surprise, nearly managing to bowl him over as she pounded on him with her small fists. He stood there stunned trying to comprehend what he'd done. He remained oblivious to the sylph as she sank to the ground and huddled miserably in the mud, mewling piteously to herself, holding her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth.