Additional information
| Weight | 1 oz |
|---|
Bourbon-Soaked Pumpkin Peanut Butter Fudge Perfume Oil
$29.00
Bourbon-Soaked Pumpkin Peanut Butter Fudge Perfume Oil
$29.00
Gooey.
Related products
-
Octobrrr Perfume Oil
Add to cartOur classic October perfume blend, chilled to the max! Inspired, in part, by my heater being busted at home. A really, really, REALLY cold, dry autumn wind, a rustle of red leaves, and a touch of smoke and sap in the air.
Art: The Pumpkin Harvest (1897) by Giovanni Segantini
-
My Wild Heart Bleeds With Yours Perfume Oil
Add to cartShe used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, “Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours…”
A fierce rush of pink pepper, carnation, pulsating red berries, and crimson musk.
-
Pumpkin Spice Everything Perfume Oil
Add to cartLiterally everything! Pumpkin spice it all with this traditional brew of cinnamon, cardamom, allspice, and clove.
-
Mircalla, Countess Karnstein Perfume Oil
Add to cartI remembered it; it was a small picture, about a foot and a half high, and nearly square, without a frame; but it was so blackened by age that I could not make it out.
The artist now produced it, with evident pride. It was quite beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to live. It was the effigy of Carmilla!
“Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture. Isn’t it beautiful, Papa? And see, even the little mole on her throat.”
My father laughed, and said “Certainly it is a wonderful likeness,” but he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture cleaner, who was also something of an artist, and discoursed with intelligence about the portraits or other works, which his art had just brought into light and color, while I was more and more lost in wonder the more I looked at the picture.
“Will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?” I asked.
“Certainly, dear,” said he, smiling, “I’m very glad you think it so like. It must be prettier even than I thought it, if it is.”
The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture.
“And now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner. It is not Marcia; it looks as if it was done in gold. The name is Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little coronet over and underneath A.D. 1698. I am descended from the Karnsteins; that is, mamma was.”
Black velvet, blackcurrant, and black roses.
Reviews
There are no reviews yet.