Mary Moon: Gentleman of the Downs

Mary Moon pressed her cheek to the cool windowpane and breathed a moonlit oval in the glass. Beyond her cottage garden the South Downs shouldered the night, chalk and flint rising into a sky pricked with winter stars. Inside, the cottage smelled of beeswax and lavender and the faint medicinal tang of mugwort drying by the Rayburn. Her bangles chimed as she reached for the kettle.

“You know,” said Margaret, materialising on the settle like an untidy cat in a beaded headband, “for a woman who can spot a spirit at fifty paces you’re oddly blind to the living ones who ogle you over oat milk lattes.”

“I’m not blind.” Mary poured water over the tea, steam haloing her dark hair. “Just… selective.”

“Selective?” Margaret rested her chin on her palm and widened her eyes. “Love, you’ve been celibate so long the maypole’s thinking of sending you a Christmas card.”

Mary smothered a smile and carried the mug to the table. “I’m happy. I’ve the shop, the café, the coven on Thursdays, and my clients — ”

“And a bed that’s got more amethyst on it than men.” Margaret’s grin was wicked. “Time you let a few mortal fingers tangle your bangles, Mary Moon.”

It had been a good day at the Moon & Mortar: a parade of customers in big coats, their noses pink, their questions earnest. Does clear quartz really amplify intent? Could Mary charm a locket for a baby due at Imbolc? Could she recommend a tea to soothe a heart that woke each night around three…