Starlight

Starlight opens with an immediate shot of warmth—green cardamom pods cracked open, their camphoraceous oils mingling with bergamot that's been stripped of its citrus brightness, leaving only a bitter, resinous edge. This isn't a fresh spice fragrance; it's the scent of a spice merchant's wooden drawers, where years of aromatic dust have settled into the grain. Within moments, the heart reveals its intentions: toasted almond skins meet with true cassia cinnamon bark, hot and almost medicinal in its intensity, whilst clove buds add their eugenol sharpness—the kind that makes your mouth water and your sinuses clear. There's a gourmand quality here, but it's not remotely edible in the modern sense; rather, it recalls medieval pomanders and mulled wine reduced to a sticky, ambered syrup.

The base is where Starlight earns its name, as dry Virginian cedarwood pencil shavings provide structure whilst amber—more labdanum than vanilla—lends a leathery, almost animalic warmth. The balsamic accord threads through like church incense, all myrrh and benzoin, creating a fragrance that feels simultaneously ancient and oddly futuristic. This is for the wearer who finds Serge Lutens too subtle, who wants to smell of something rather than merely smell nice. Evening only, cold weather essential, and best worn by someone who doesn't flinch when strangers comment on their sillage.