Nocturnes de Caron Vintage Eau de Toilette (Caron)

Goodness gracious me! Though this mini-bottle of Nocturnes de Caron is only thirty-odd years old, its contents leave me beached thirty years before that-- a moment in which feminism experienced a neap tide so extreme, women had actually been talked back into corsets. A riffle through Elizabeth Winder's Pain Parties Work or Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road spells out the entire swindle. Girls in gloves and hats and hose, bleeding invisibly through acres of touch-me-not crinoline, trudging from fête to fête until they'd won all the prizes -- the spouse, the house, the three kids, the washer/dryer, the coveted Junior League President's chair -- and hating it, hating it, hating it.

In and of itself, Nocturnes is not a terrible thing. It's sweet, virginal, as floucy and decorative as a bridal bouquet that takes both hands to hold, and exactly as impractical for getting on with the sticky stuff of real life. Sylvia Plath really nailed it: It can sew, it can cook,/It can talk, talk, talk./It works, there is nothing wrong with it.../My boy, it's your last resort./Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

Scent Elements: Aldehydes, bergamot, neroli, jasmine, rose, ylang-ylang, tuberose, stephanotis, lily-of-the-valley, iris, cyclamen, vanilla, amber, musk, sandalwood, vetiver, benzoin

Parfum du Jour: Geisha Green (Aroma M)

Why wear it? For a boost in morale (and a suggestion of springtime) on a dull grey, almost-December day.

What does it do? Geisha Green takes Artemisia absinthium -- a note most often reserved for flinty-eyed masculine fougères -- gift-wraps it in layers of silk and brocade and teaches it to converse in a Gion Kōbu accent. Cassis shows itself only in gauzy hints of crimson glimpsed at collar and sleeve. Bewitching.

How do I feel? Heartened. Yesterday was difficult; today is easier, and tomorrow may be smoother still. Gambatte!

Quadrille Vintage Eau de Cologne Fraîche (Balenciaga)

Likened by various reviewers to Schiaparelli Shocking, Rochas Femme, or (in a more contemporary vein) Boucheron Jaïpur, Balenciaga Quadrille (1955) is described as a lush ambrosia of fruit and spices, with a lascivious bare-skin musk for ballast. According to Fragrantica, the parfum version of Quadrille features notes of plum, peach, lemon, jasmine, clove, cardamom, and amber. Sounds lovely-- but I'm here to write about a different beast altogether. Metaphorically speaking, Quadrille Eau de Cologne Fraîche is to its parfum counterpart what a daytime clutch is to a fully-stuffed Coach Gramercy shoulderbag. Only the bare essentials will fit... but by god, they're indispensable.

Though but a few of the parfum's constituents are readily discernable in the EdC, they have been well-chosen, their effect deliberately heightened. The lemon opener sparkles like sherbet candy and is followed by a damascenone which ably connotes a ripe, rosy plum. These two notes interact beautifully-- one bitingly tart and bright, the other dusky and jam-sweet. Whatever you're expecting next, it's probably not black leather. But that's exactly what meets the nose on the next inhale: a great waft of isobutyl quinoline, all bitter sophistication. (Surprise!)

A fleeting hint of soapy, cool cardamom blunts the harsh edges, and a friendly musk ends the experience on a hospitable note. But the message is clear: don't dare underestimate Madame.

Scent Elements: Lemon, plum, cardamom, leather, musk

Parfum du Jour: The Smell of Weather Turning (LUSH)

Why wear it? To mark the hesitant appearance of the first flakes of snow, glimpsed through the kitchen window this morning as the last of the Thanksgiving Nor'easter blew through our backyard.

What does it do? The Smell of Weather Turning offers the olfactory equivalent of a kaleidoscopic view, revolving through stormy blue-grey, startling green, lucent honey-amber, and smoky silver, with intermittent flashes of lightning designed to temporarily dazzle one speechless.

How do I feel? Not to toot my own horn, but at this moment, I feel quite accomplished. I started the morning by whipping up a gorgeous batch of pumpkin-bacon-date muffins. After watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade over coffee, I began prepping our evening feast. As we speak, a big pan of panko-crusted baked macaroni and cheese is browning in the oven. A delicious mixture of pecans, chopped dried fruits, and shallots sauteed in butter and cider waits to be stuffed into butterflied pork chops, then oven-baked in more cider, olive oil, and fresh sage leaf chiffonade. After that, all we have to do is pop the steam-in-the-bag green beans into the microwave, and it will be Bon Appétit! As promised, the pie (apple) and cream (whipped) are store-bought, and there's Maine Root Pumpkin Pie Soda for a digestif. But through all this, I remain grateful to the core for my spouse, who helped me do it all, as he always does. (That's why the biggest, juiciest pork chop is destined for his plate!)

Anne Klein II Vintage Parfum (Anne Klein)

My heart leapt with excitement and delight when I spotted a vintage mini of Anne Klein II in Mrs. Young's Sunday Stash. Here's a prime example (Opium and Cinnabar being two others) of a successful intersection between chypre and oriental-- two very distinct genres linked by their shared compatibility with fruity and floral notes. While Calvin Klein Obsession favors the oriental side of the bargain, AKII remains firmly in the chypre camp. It's drier (even its peach note speaks more of sueded skin than of sweet nectar) and features only a careful modicum of spice. But oh, the flowers, almost embarrassing in their plenitude! And oh, the civet and sandalwood on which this display is tabled! (Plus, that bottle, and that typeface-- did you ever see anything so nifty?)

If I had to arrange AKII and its kindred along a time continuum, I would say that Cinnabar occupies the bright optimistic morning... and Obsession the post-five-o'clock cocktail hour. Opium can be found lolling in late-night satin bedsheets, naturally dreaming of poppy fields and Emerald Cities. And Anne Klein II -- urbane, witty, and self-confident -- swings along the glittering boulevards during all hours in-between.

Scent Elements: Bergamot, lemon, galbanum, peach, rose, ylang-ylang, jasmine, carnation, iris, sandalwood, rosewood, patchouli, amber, benzoin, civet, musk

Je Reviens Vintage Eau de Parfum (Worth)

I have absolutely no idea what year my bottle was produced. It's a white frosted glass boule flacon -- modeled after Worth's Dans La Nuit flacon in midnight blue, all stars and romance -- with a ground-glass stopper (oh so classic!) and a tiny metal 'W' pendant slung around its neck. The stopper alone would be considered anomalous for something new, so I'm content to imagine the word "vintage" as a description for twenty to forty years ago. The contents are a distillation of every spring flower imaginable, sweet and bright, tussled by a crisp northerly wind. There's a goodly slug of jasmine for sex appeal, and a drydown which veers into animalic territory without ever becoming vulgar.

All in all, Je Reviens is a complimentary portrait-- not of the couture for which the House of Worth is justly famed, but of the woman to be found inside all the silks and satins. She is not just a mannequin, but a warm-blooded individual with a point of view. I didn't think I'd like her as much as I do, but I'm glad I trusted my friend KV, for whom Je Reviens is a touchstone. Now I understand why.

Scent Elements: Aldehydes, jasmine, hyacinth, lilac, orange blossom, violet, ylang ylang, narcissus, jonquil, oakmoss, sandalwood, balsam Tolu, vetiver, musk

Parfum du Jour: Amber Pour Homme (Prada)

Why wear it? For an extra protective layer between tender skin and scratchy winter woolens.

What does it do? It soothes nerves provoked to a frazzle on the sixth day of an interminably long work week. Waxy labdanum, slippery suede, oily saffron, soapy cardamom, and creamy tonka make for a most unctuous combination. If Prada made a balm version with a lanoline-and-beeswax base, winter (and work!) would never chap me again.

How do I feel? Ameliorated.

Parfum du Jour: Encre Noire (Lalique)

Why wear it? To scare the villagers into consulting the local copy of Malleus Maleficarium.

What does it do? It sets off a serious, long-burning bonfire that fills the cold air of November with a drear vetiver smoke cloud. Its mighty swell blocks out the very sun and causes ink-black rain to fall upon the land, spoiling crops and dyeing the local sheep flocks a somber grey. The umbra it casts is endless and apocalyptic, yet you walk within it as safe as a well-warded witch. Obviously you have friends in low places. VERY low places.

How do I feel? Defiant. Do you think I burn so easily? More torches and pitchforks, say I.

Incognito Vintage Fragrance (Cover Girl)

Certain fragrances smell as though you've known them all your life... even if you were formally introduced only a scant minute ago. Case in point: Incognito, Cover Girl's much-mourned 1992 floriental. I just brought home a full vintage mini-bottle from the antique store, yet I feel positive this isn't the first time this fragrance has meandered across my path. We met many years ago... but where?

Set the scene: I'm on the #28 NJ Transit bus (all local stops between Newark and Montclair) sitting across the aisle from a woman clad in Casual Friday office mufti. Homeward bound, we slump in our respective plastic seats-- faces expressionless, feet and shoulders sore. Her thousand-yard stare (a necessity on urban public transit) exactly mirrors my own; doubtless she would discourage prying questions from a total stranger. But my god, she smells good! What perfume is that? A cheap and cheerful domestic version of Fendi by Fendi, it pools around her like honey. I love it. I wish I had the guts to ask her its name, or even more, to wear such a thing with aplomb behind my own courtesy desk. Anyone can be an interchangeable worker bee-- yet who could pass unnoticed wearing a scent so feminine, so delirious?

They named this thing all wrong, I think. They should have called it Shameless, or Wanton, or Defiant-- if for no other reason than to raise service industry employee morale. Such names, and the fragrance attached to them, make being hitched to the grindstone bearable. To hell with your coworkers and their oversensitive nasal passages: this is survival, people. Do it in style, or don't do it at all.

Scent Elements: Aldehydes, orange, lemon, bergamot, greens, basil, jasmine, ylang-ylang, lily-of-the-valley, rose, carnation, iris, honey, cinnamon, patchouli, rosewood, sandalwood, tonka bean, amber, benzoin, styrax, incense, civet, vanilla

Parfum du Jour: Fumerie Turque (Serge Lutens)

Why wear it? Again, the weather is unseasonably frigid, with a stiff breeze that lowers one's core temperature with merciless efficiency. Such a foe must be fought with fire.

What does it do? Fumerie Turque emanates an air of Victorian British cozy-corner done over as Oriental fantasy-- brocade draperies and throw pillows mixed together with Staffordshire bric-a-brac and back issues of Punch. Ornate, yet familiar and welcoming.

How do I feel? Girded against the dread polar vortex. Boreas, do your worst!

Parfum du Jour: Black Mark Eau de Parfum (Jack Black)

Why wear it? Because it's freezing goddamn cold outside.

What does it do? With the exception of a brief, strident burst of lavender early on, Black Mark muffles you up to the chin for hours in a friendly fever of fiery cedar and mellow saffron. Better than a sweater!

How do I feel? At least five degrees warmer. It doesn't seem like much, but in weather like this, it makes all the difference.

Parfum du Jour: Sandalwood & Ginger (The Body Shop)

Why wear it? Well, it's raining buckets outside, which is exactly how the weather looked the first time I reviewed S&G two and a half years ago. I suppose heavy precipitation triggers a need in me for warm and woody perfumes. If my fingers hadn't brushed against my sample vial of S&G first, I would probably have opted for Black Mark and ended up unhappy. (But talk to me again tomorrow, when the temperature plummets thirty degrees-- Black Mark will be more than welcome then!)

What does it do? A very basic thing in a very beautiful way.

How do I feel? Because I sprayed S&G in my freshly-washed hair as well as on my wrists, every time I turn my head I receive a fresh waft of mellow, buttery santal goodness.

Grev (Slumberhouse)

Here I am at the end of my Slumberhouse run, and I'm glad to report that I enjoyed relative good luck with this line. Out of eleven fragrances, only four disappointed me, which sets the ratio of good-to-bad at roughly 3:2 (or three-fifths).  In comparison to other lines, I'd rate Slumberhouse as "not nearly as good as Soivohle" but "far more interesting than Parfumerie Générale" and "leaves Olympic Orchids in the dust".

I reserved Grev for last because it wanted a wintry day to unlock what I have to say about it. The minty combination of evergreen and wintergreen (methyl salicylate derived from sweet birch buds) is simple yet obvious, like lyrics which prove inseparable from their original melody. Add the icewater chill of iris, and glittering hoarfrost limns the scenery in silver.  The whole world is awash in feathery flicks of Disney Fantasia pink and blue. It's so divine, I'm saving the remainder to wear on New Year's Eve, when it will complement two flutes of prosecco to perfection.

Scent Elements: Copaiba balsam, birch buds, fir, clove, iris, cedar

Calyx Vintage Fragrance (Prescriptives for Estée Lauder)

How best to sum up the repertoire of perfumer Sophia Grojsman? Too-too? That old synonym for 'overblown' may be outmoded, but it fits Prescriptives Calyx like a custom-made merry widow.

In the main, Grojsman's fragrances are very much like Grojsman herself-- hard-faced, a bit garish, yet uniquely sympathisch. For the same reason that I always watch The Fisher King for Mercedes Ruehl's poison-tongued sexpot Anne (and that astounding Grand Central Station waltz scene), I admire Sophia Grojsman's parfums de poitrine (Jaïpur, Spellbound, Trésor, Yvresse, Sun Moon Stars) for their patented, built-in OOMPH!. Yet it's equally easy to envision these dames bare-faced and denuded of glitz, staring into their dressing room mirrors in the harsh glare of a naked lightbulb. For such moments, Grojsman created White Linen, Paris, Eternity, and Calyx.

I'm not implying that Calyx lacks cleavage. How could it, with such an overdose of tropical fruit? Passionfruit, guava, and papaya all boast of a dizzying sweetness, but you truly have to be comfortable with rancidity and rot to tolerate their stomach-turning enzymatic quality. Luckily, Sophia Grojsman knows the value of a demure cover-up to balance a stunning décolletage. Cyclamen, muguet, and mint provide the "tulle tucker" effect that transforms Calyx from fermented fruitbomb to something cool, rain-dappled, remote-- the promised fragrance exaltante.

When this metamorphosis was first achieved in 1986, the trend for cloying, Giorgio-esque florientals wavered, then toppled. It seems we need Calyx (tweaked and rereleased by Clinique last year) to work its magic again. Hasn't the last decade been one endless parade of supersized dessert-cart perfumes? So long have we lived with fragrances that wear us instead of the other way around that a return to nature would be welcome. It needn't be red in tooth and claw. Just clean and green will do.

Scent Elements: Mandarin, bergamot, passionfruit, peach, mango, melon, papaya, grapefruit, guava, raspberry, cyclamen, lily of the valley, jasmine, rose, neroli, marigold, mint, cassia, vetiver, oakmoss, sandalwood, musk.

Parfum du Jour: Cabochard (Parfums Grès)

Why wear it? For the pure don't-give-a-damn of it all.

What does it do? It renders you flinty and unfuckwithable, puts steel in your spine, and sharpens the twin points of your forked tongue to a fare-thee-well.

How do I feel? None of your beeswax. Now fetch me a nice scotch and soda-- there's a lamb.

Parfum du Jour: 1740 Marquis de Sade (Histoires de Parfums)

Why wear it? For certain defense against a cold, heartless world.

What does it do? Despite all that its name and notes imply, this fragrance overflows with tender compassion. I could rest my head on its broad shoulder all century long and never need to utter that pre-arranged safe word.

How do I feel? Like yielding-- utterly.

Vikt (Slumberhouse)

For days, I've struggled to pinpoint what exactly about Slumberhouse Vikt keeps me dipping into my rapidly diminishing supply of same. Not the oud, which for all its disturbing splendor proved to be the standard article. Not the laurel, though I love it in abundance (unlike my husband, who decries my tendency to lard a pot of chili with practically a whole tree's worth of bay leaves). Only today did I find myself wondering which of my coworkers would accidentally leave an apple to rot in their desk drawer... merely to realize that the sweet, yeasty scent of fermenting Malus domestica came from my own wrists.

Having long been a cidermaker, I confess to a fondness for the intoxicating pong peculiar to this hobby, though I remain unsure that anyone else finds it (or its fruits, so to speak) quite to their taste. I can't get enough... as the dwindling level of perfume in my sample vial of Vikt proves. That it's backed by an unworthy synthetic wood base remains moot. I love this stuff. It's Rume after aging ten years in a cellar. I feel unashamed to drain it to the very dregs.

Scent Elements: Oud, styrax, Madagascar laurel

Parfum du Jour: L'Interdit (Givenchy)

Why wear it? For a haze of fragrance on a foggy November day marked by unseasonable warmth.

What does it do? For one thing, it surrounds and soothes but does not suffocate. For another, it reminds me of childhood breakfasts consisting of sliced ripe peaches or nectarines and milk eaten with a spoon. No cereal, no sugar, no fuss. Just sweet, cold, creamy delight.

How do I feel? Cautiously optimistic.

Parfum du Jour: Cèdre Bleu (Yves Rocher)

Why wear it? To hide inside a cocoon of lovingkindness when circumstances seem rather less than hospitable.

What does it do? It starts off very woody indeed, austere with a hint of dry black tea leaves. Then in an eyeblink, it soufflés into a pillowy île flottante of saffron, guaiac and sweet cream-- the nicest fake-out you'll ever fall victim to.

How do I feel? Like somebody just handed me a hot mug of milk chai, an insanely soft microfiber blanket, and a doctor's prescription for thirty days' total R'n'R.

Fleur de Fleurs Vintage Parfum de Toilette (Nina Ricci)

After war, pestilence, famine, and dying single, smelling bad is arguably womankind's greatest fear. From adolescence clear through to old age, we field so many warnings about feminine odor that autophantosmia becomes a kneejerk reflex. We live in terror of offending the world around us-- not through any real fault of our own, unless being female really is the Original Sin.

Laboring under the assumption that women don't already obsess over their own bodies, Cosmopolitan has published this online slideshow to familiarize us with the six major pongs emitted by our own personal Down Unders. Musky, bleachy and sweet are deemed normal. Tinny (metallic) is also normal, but only during one's moontime. Yeasty and fishy are invariably bad. Baaaaaaaad. And even there, a distinction exists-- for while a yeast infection is undeniably inconvenient, wafting a mysterious odor of fresh-baked bread is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. You want horror? Try trimethylaminuria. This incurable metabolic condition causes its victims to smell like decaying seafood no matter how scrupulously clean they are. It's a devastating life sentence for which a strictly-modified diet provides only temporary reprieve. I mention it because I know full well that the complaint I'm about to deliver is totally frivolous by comparison. If a perfume makes me smell fishy, I can just scrub it. I put it on; I can take it off. Simple, right?

There's so much to like about Fleur de Fleurs, Nina Ricci's 1982 aldehydic springtime floral. First (and most obvious), there's that gorgeous Lalique-designed flacon. Inside, one finds nectared cyclamen and hyacinth underpinned with sandalwood and civet. It's fresh. It's sexy. It's eager to please. But then (oh god forgive me!) the pissy, fishy stench of stale feminine fluids rises up and just ruins everything.

I've come across this phenomenon before in other fragrances (Le Galion's Eau de Bourrasque still snaps at me from the briny deep!). What do they have in common? Aldehydes-- every damn time. But aldehydes don't always produce a marine stink. In some fragrances they sparkle like silver-gilt paillettes; in others, they generate a rich, soft, fatty sensation like cascades of melted candle wax. Could it be another scent element against which the aldehydes rebel? A citrus note? A floral molecule? What?

To give due credit, Fleur de Fleurs perfumer Betty Busse did compose the gorgeously louche-tastic original Chloé. On the other hand, we also have her to blame for 1968's Esteé Super, an aldehydic floral with one of the fishiest undercurrents I've ever encountered. My mother-in-law loves Esteé Super almost as much as she loves Hermès 24 Fauborg. But Hermès 24 Fauborg makes her smell like a wildflower bouquet-- and Esteé Super makes her smell like canned salmon. Fleur de Fleurs, I'm sad to say, would make her smell about halfway inbetween.

Scent Elements: Aldehydes, greens, bergamot, lemon, cyclamen, rosemary, magnolia, iris, lilac, jasmine, hyacinth, ylang-ylang, lily-of-the-valley, sandalwood, civet, musk

Parfum du Jour: Ma Griffe EdT (Carven)

Why wear it? To gear down from all the leather and segue into a slightly more forgiving frame of mind. Also, there's not much of it left in the sample vial.  The angels do take their share, don't they?

What does it do? Sets the teeth ever so slightly on edge. Between its prickly aldehydes and the mild rasp of sandalwood in its drydown, there's this jewel-like spring-green note that summons April even while dour Autumn soldiers onward.

How do I feel? A bit wistful, wearing this today. It's so out of season to both my mind and my nose, that I almost feel protective of it-- this tender green shoot about to feel the bite of winter frost.

Parfum du Jour: Jolie Madame (Balmain)

Why wear it? Because as Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham could tell us, being a lady and busting balls are not mutually exclusive pursuits. And also, this fragrance co-authored the playbook that Cabochard carries in tiny, leather-gloved hand.

What does it do? It may smile, and smile, and be a villain... but it accomplishes this deed in full hat-and-heels with a purse cover to match and the most exquisitely perfect up-flicks of mascara on its artfully narrowed eyelids.

How do I feel? Like a cat who has captured both the canary and the cream.

Rume (Slumberhouse)

I don't think Rume is anything original. It reminds me quite plainly of several other fragrances (Soivohle Solstice, Sweet Anthem Roslin, Smell Bent Otter Luvr) which approximate the scent of harvest apples without listing them as an ingredient. But oh, how well they console my hurting heart and warm it up when it's taken on a chill. So: original, no. But special? Indubitably so.

Scent Elements: Bay leaf, myrrh, hay, labdanum, hazelnut, "clay" accord

Jeke Parfum Extrait (Slumberhouse)

My pal DC recently told me that a cousin of hers has embraced a new career as a designer of artisanal eLiquid. (That's the elixir -- and honestly, wouldn't "eLixir" be a better name? -- composed of propylene glycol, flavorings, and nicotine which is aerosolized in a personal vaporizer or eCigarette.) By DC's description, her cousin's craft sounds a lot like perfumery, which got me thinking. What perfumes would I smoke, if smoking perfume were possible? Well, Cabochard, of course... Liz Zorn's Meerschaum... Puredistance M... Aramis Havana... Jasmin et Cigarette... the indispensible Fumerie Turque... and Jeke by Slumberhouse.

If there existed a tobacco whose smoke smelled just like Jeke, I'd be back in the habit in the blink of an eye. Here's an aroma as fruity-meaty-smoky-sweet as pemmican, as dense and Christmas-y as mince, more meal than after-dinner smoke. When you've got a labdanum this rich, a patchouli this dirty, a cade this infernal, a tobacco this earthy, you need a note that lassoes it all together. Here, it's clove-- an additive I love in both 'fume and fumum. We're not talking about some pale apothecary tincture reminiscent of doctors' or dentists' offices. Jeke's clove essence is fiery, caustic and pure. A drop of it on your skin would leave a tiny blister. But cut with all of Jeke's other constituent elements, its heat is diffused and broadened, changed by alchemy and art into something that embraces the wearer and boosts their well-being. I feel uplifted by Jeke... and to my knowledge, it's not due to a nicotine rush.

Still, a scent this profound and mystical can't be delivered in a flimsy rolling paper or an electronically dosed vapor. Jeke possesses weight and presence beyond the medium it's meant to represent; it seems to deserve (nay, earn!) a pipe -- preferably briar-burl or red catlinite, solid and weighty and satisfying to hold in the hand. All the ritual required to fill, light, and smoke it would serve as a testament to the worthiness of this addictive scent.

Scent Elements: Cade, tobacco, patchouli, benzoin, labdanum, lapsang souchong tea, clove, vanilla

Norne (Slumberhouse)

A "guilty pleasure" is defined as a form of entertainment which produces equal amounts of enjoyment and shame. As ridicule may follow on the heels of exposure, we hide our devotion to protect its object.

One of my guiltiest pleasures is Ridley Scott's Legend, a deliriously silly fairy tale starring Tom Cruise and Mia Sara as-- god, what are they? Super friends, foster siblings, doe-eyed lovers? Whatever. Jack and Lili rendezvous daily to pick flowers in a soft-focus forest primeval while Tim Curry (resplendent in delicious demon drag) plots to harsh their hippie lovefest. It's all so glitter-dusted and overblown, even I want to mock it... except for faithful Jack. This chaste nature boy kills me with his depthless innocence and tousled hair and moss-green eyes and revealing tatters and well-muscled young shoulders... Sorry, what was I saying?

Norne by Slumberhouse seems to me the ideal approximation of Jack's scent-- something feral and forest-born, nourished on morning dew and daubed with the soot of a Walpurgisnacht bonfire. Balsam fir (with its curious undertone of burnt sugar) makes up the heart of this chypre, which ought to list menace, mystery, and magick right alongside. This is truly a forest encapsulated in scent, ancient and implacable, with neither a particle of decay omitted nor a hint of Disney added. To ward off peril, a frankincense note peals forth as clear and sanctified as church bells-- but Norne's tutelary demon cannot be banished, for this is its home. You are the one out of place. Twigs snap, shadows lurk, and predatory eyes glow at you from every thicket as you turn and turn, trying to recall the exact moment when the trail disappeared from under your feet...

Is your love strong enough?

Scent Elements: Lichen, fern, oakmoss, balsam fir, hemlock, incense

Pear & Olive Parfum Extrait (Slumberhouse)

Would that it were mostly olive, but no: it is that same predictable pear that graces storebought shampoo, plus a number of ingredients (massoia, aglaia, calamus, zdravets) seemingly chosen more for the exotic quality of their names than for their importance to the formula. The one ingredient not included in the roll call is coconut, which is abundantly present, almost to the point of hijacking the whole. Sadly redundant. Or is that redundantly sad?

Scent Elements: Pear, cognac, chamomile, aglaia, zdravets (geranium), olive, massoia, calamus. And coconut. SO much coconut.