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  Pumpkin puree whipped into thick folds of buttercream.

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  Robin Goodfellow Perfume Oil

  Now the hungry lion roars,
  And the wolf behowls the moon;
  Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
  All with weary task fordone.
  Now the wasted brands do glow,
  Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,
  Puts the wretch that lies in woe
  In remembrance of a shroud.
  Now it is the time of night
  That the graves all gaping wide,
  Every one lets forth his sprite,
  In the church-way paths to glide:
  And we fairies, that do run
  By the triple Hecate’s team,
  From the presence of the sun,
  Following darkness like a dream,
  Now are frolic: not a mouse
  Shall disturb this hallow’d house:
  I am sent with broom before,
  To sweep the dust behind the door.

  Dark musk, moss-covered wood, ragwort, heather, and sage.

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  Doom Cake Perfume Oil

  A drug-induced vision of grabby, gore-slicked tentacles erupting from a facade of thick buttercream and lemon sponge soaked in cherry-flavored goo.

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  A Pause in One’s Studies Perfume Oil

  Luminous amber, white tea, sweet heliotrope, golden lotus petals, toasted almond blossom cream, and a smear of ink.

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