Scent Notes: Rosewood, guaiac wood, and mahogany form the rich heart. Labdanum, hyssop, and a mossy forest floor meld with a drop of animalic musk.

You slowly open your eyes as the birds begin to chirp you awake. It’s morning, it’s morning; time to rise! You groan, grab the jar of seed from your bedside table, open the window where the early morning rays are shining in, and dump a bunch outside. The birds stop chirping and immediately begin to gorge themselves. You shut the window and the blinds, and hop back into your hand-carved wooden bed to sleep just a little longer. The damn rooster had already woken you up once, earlier, and that was quite enough.

Several hours later you awake on your own, the fat little birds sleeping in their nests outside your window. That should keep them happy and out of the poison garden for a while. A quick jaunt to the kitchen to put the kettle on, your forest green velvet cloak draped around you to keep you warm on this chilly morning. No frost, thankfully, as you whip open the door and take a gigantic breath in, and let it out with a satisfied scream. Several local children, who had been staring at your house from your garden gate, shriek and run away. You pick up your basket, and head straight to trim off some bittersweet nightshade berries and Chinese lantern pods to finalize your autumn altar. Your luscious garden, while not at the height of its season, is still massive and daunting even in its dying state. All a part of life, you think, trimming back growth here and there, and filling your basket. The leaves crunch beneath your feet, and the mossy trees that surround your house give you a sense of peace that nothing else ever could. You discover several leaves stuck in the snarled nest of your hair, which gives you a further thrill. Inside, the kettle screams, and you run back in to turn it off and pour your first, of many, cups of tea for the day. You head into your small, packed library, and grab a few different horticulture books from your immense collection, and head out the back door to your own personal farm. There’s a reason your house is quite cozy: you needed the space for your gardens and farm. Two goats graze towards the back of the semi-overgrown grass, and the chickens cluck happily in their coop. Time to settle down on your outdoor chaise lounge for a bit of reading before collecting eggs, finishing the altar, and inviting the neighborhood women over for tea, gossip, and potions. Somebody always needs a new potion, and they’re willing to pay you good money because everything you make just “like, really works,” to quote one of the women. And it’s true: nobody knows how old you are because your homemade anti-aging products keep you looking in your 20s, though you’ve lived in the town for seemingly hundreds of years now. Nobody knows a thing about you, really, except that the neighborhood children fear you, you haven’t brushed or touched your hair in years, and the neighborhood women swoon over you. Might be because you lace their tea with truth serum and a drop of love potion, but nobody needs to know that. And the neighborhood men? Well, you’ve never given them a thought. If they have anything to say about you, they know better than to try and come around and bother you with their petty nonsense. You take a deep breath and lie down, staring up into the vast canopy of trees overhead. Yes, this is the best life.

Scent Notes: Rosewood, guaiac wood, and mahogany form the rich heart. Labdanum, hyssop, and a mossy forest floor meld with a drop of animalic musk.