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  Snooty Rose Perfume Oil

  `It isn’t manners for us to begin, you know,’ said the Rose, `and I really was wondering when you’d speak! Said I to myself, “Her face has got some sense in it, thought it’s not a clever one!” Still, you’re the right colour, and that goes a long way.’ 

  `I don’t care about the colour,’ the Tiger-lily remarked. `If only her petals curled up a little more, she’d be all right.’ 

  Alice didn’t like being criticised, so she began asking questions. `Aren’t you sometimes frightened at being planted out here, with nobody to take care of you?’ 

  `There’s the tree in the middle,’ said the Rose: `what else is it good for?’ 

  `But what could it do, if any danger came?’ Alice asked.

  Red rose, oud, plum, bergamot, and red sandalwood.

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• 

  Think Snow for Me Home & Linen Spray

  “What we need,” said Wednesday, suddenly, “is snow. A good, driving, irritating snow. Think ‘snow’ for me, will you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Concentrate on making those clouds-the ones over there, in the west-making them bigger and darker. Think gray skies and driving winds coming down from the arctic. Think snow.”

  “I don’t think it will do any good.”

  “Nonsense. If nothing else, it will keep your mind occupied,” said Wednesday, unlocking the car. “Kinko’s next. Hurry up.”

  Snow, thought Shadow, in the passenger seat, sipping his hot chocolate. Huge, dizzying clumps and clusters of snow falling through the air, patches of white against an iron-gray sky, snow that touches your tongue with cold and winter, that kisses your face with its hesitant touch before freezing you to death. Twelve cotton-candy inches of snow, creating a fairy-tale world, making everything unrecognizably beautiful . . .

  Snow, thought Shadow. High in the atmosphere, perfect, tiny crystals that form about a minute piece of dust, each a lacelike work of fractal art. And the snow crystals clump together into flakes as they fall, covering Chicago in their white plenty, inch upon inch . . .

  Snow upon snow upon snow.

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  Bluebeard’s Wife Perfume Oil

  “Bluebeard stories provide one of the few venues women have to talk about the pervasive nature of marital violence. Like the slashers, they convert private drama into public spectacle, giving women a language for their pain.”

  Red rose petals floating in brackish salt water.

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  Les Bijoux Perfume Oil

  My well-beloved was stripped. Knowing my whim,
  She wore her tinkling gems, but naught besides:
  And showed such pride as, while her luck betides,
  A sultan’s favored slave may show to him.

  When it lets off its lively, crackling sound,
  This blazing blend of metal crossed with stone
  Gives me an ecstasy I’ve only known
  Where league of sound and lustre can be found.

  She let herself be loved: then, drowsy-eyed,
  Smiled down from her high couch in languid ease.
  My love was deep and gentle as the seas
  And rose to her as to a cliff the tide.

  My own approval of each dreamy pose,
  Like a tamed tiger, cunningly she sighted:
  And candour, with lubricity united,
  Gave piquancy to every one she chose.

  Her limbs and hips, burnished with changing lustres
  Before my eyes, clairvoyant and serene,
  Swanned themselves, undulating in their sheen;
  Her breasts and belly, of my vine the clusters,

  Like evil angels rose, my fancy twitting,
  To kill the peace which over me she’d thrown,
  And to disturb her from the crystal throne
  Where, calm and solitary, she was sitting.

  So swerved her pelvis that, in one design,
  Antiope’s white rump it seemed to graft
  To a boy’s torso, merging fore and aft.
  The talc on her brown tan seemed half-divine.

  The lamp resigned its dying flame. Within,
  The hearth alone lit up the darkened air,
  And every time it sighed a crimson flare
  It drowned in blood that amber-coloured skin.

  Skin musk and honey, blood-red rose, orange blossom, white peach, red apple, frankincense and myrrh.

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