The saffron burns off by the third hour. Australian sandalwood clings to your collar, dry and slow to fade.

Butter and toasted hazelnut, pulled a minute late from the oven. The vanilla underneath has gone dark, closer to leather than cream.

Greek saffron, picked in the two red hours before the sun ruins it. On the wrist it turns resinous, close to dark caramel.

Ambrette seed is pressed cold in the Peruvian valleys. It smells less of flower than of warm linen after sleep, faintly salted.

A lychee crushed into ice. Cold first, then the pink pepper bites, then the sweetness pulls back. It stays close to the skin for an hour.

Haitian vetiver root drawn by pressure, no heat. What comes through is the root itself, green and clean. By night it sinks low and quiet.

A green chili. The bite lasts a few seconds, no more. What stays is the seed, sharp and clean, close to cut grass.

This frankincense smells of hot asphalt at three in the afternoon, dry and almost industrial. On skin, it deepens as the day cools.

Tuberose stripped to the stamen: bitter, sharp, faintly metallic. It dries fast and never turns creamy.