Pagan Ní Riain

Belladonna & Birch leans away from the world, half-turned at the crooked meeting of Ash Street and Widdershins Lane, as though shy of being entirely seen. Above the lintel swings a wooden sign painted with green vines and pallid blossoms—forever blooming or withering, depending on the gaze.

Inside, the air is thick as velvet: rosemary and rosehips at the surface, but beneath, the heavy breath of wormwood, the funeral sweetness of myrrh, and something more primal still—wet stone, split root, a suggestion of soil that remembers blood. Rows of apothecary drawers line the walls, their labels hand-penned: Cramp Bark. Bloodroot. Witch Hazel. From the rafters hang bunches of herbs, beside glass pendants and tiny bones twined into charms.

Behind the counter stands Pagan, a silhouette in soft decay. Her fingers—long, unhurried—pour oil into an amber vial, dark as preserved honey. Hair the colour of ravens’ wings spills from its pins in tendrils, like smoke around a flame. When the floorboard sighs beneath a tentative step, she lifts her eyes—gold as evening sunlight.

“No valerian,” she says, gently, before the man can shape his plea.

He stares. “How did you—?”

“You’re not sleepless. You’re starved for rest. Valerian would drag you too deep. Skullcap is kinder. And you ought to start going to bed before three.”

No smile. Only softness, worn like old velvet. She offers him a bundle, tied with black twine. He hesitates, foolishly hopeful for more. He should know better.

Then: “She’s not giving you the spell, lad. You’d just botch it.”

The voice comes rough and cold from the rafters, followed by a flutter of shadow. A raven drops down, sharp-eyed, landing beside the man’s hand like a threat wrapped in feathers. His gaze glints cruel with clarity. Ancient, amused.

“Off with you,” Pagan murmurs—not unkindly. “And mind Carrion. He bites when he’s right.” The man falters out with his herbs and his wounded pride, the bell above the door giving a chime not quite of this world.

Pagan wipes the counter with a cloth stained by mugwort and use. Carrion hops after her, dragging a wing like a weary prophet. “Must you menace every poor soul that comes in?” she asks, without looking.

“If they’re poor, they can’t afford mistakes,” he says. “That one reeked of longing. He’d have asked for a love charm next.”

She clicks her tongue. “And what—think I can’t say no to that?”

Carrion answers only with a slow preen, settling beside a jar of dried Digitalis. His silence is smug. Then, the shop shifts. The air holds its breath. The bones at the back wall clink like teeth rattled by a dream. Pagan looks up. Her eyes glint with mischief or warning—it’s difficult to tell.