Additional information
Weight | 1 oz |
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$29.00
Chills and thrills, but certainly no frills: a polluted, rough-riding version of the Traditional Sheet Ghost: cool white cotton, marshmallow fluff, and lemony Oman frankincense, marred with suspicious blotches of coconut oil and a cigarette burn.
Weight | 1 oz |
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Between these passionate moments there were long intervals of commonplace, of gaiety, of brooding melancholy, during which, except that I detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me, at times I might have been as nothing to her.
A luminous cold flame: chilled bergamot, Ceylon cinnamon, white clove bud, amber, and incense smoke.
Black oud spookied up with pumpkin puree, amaretto, scorched caramel, almond paste, cacao nibs, and honey.
Turns out this is a thing that vampires are into. A warm mug of dark chocolate and cream with a dribble of blood.
I 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.
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