Requiem tat

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

Ruth Riley carefully decanted the last of the perfumes into a tiny bottle. Soon this latest batch would be done, and she would have four tiny bottles about the size of a thumbnail, made out of dark blue glass. Laid out beside each of the bottles she set four pieces of leathery canvas, stretched out over a small wooden frame.

Ruth smiled contentedly. The canvas was human skin and had been quite difficult to get hold of. She preferred the skin of the youthful, for it maintained its elasticity, and tried hard to find those who had died as peacefully as possible, without strongly scented adrenaline and sweat traced across their skin. Occasionally she had been reduced to smothering children to get exactly the right kind of scent, but she did try and avoid that unless it was absolutely necessary.

Now the recipients of her scents would be able to place a drop of the perfume on the skin, in order to appreciate it fully, without their own skin chemistry ruining the effect. Ruth could make perfume to be worn, but she needed to spend some time with the client first, to factor in the odour given off by their own bodies, be they alive or dead.

She held each bottle in her hand, cradling it gently, before she wrapped it in the silk that would protect it on its journey.

First there was the scent that came from an evening watching Helene Mirabeau strutting across a vampiric court. This was a feminine scent, designed at first to tantalise. The higher notes were those of jasmine, magnolia and gardenia; sensual and heady. At first the scent seemed seductive, but there's something underneath it all. It became sharp and acrid, when inhaled deeply, with the sting of gunpowder, and a touch of graveyard dirt lurking beneath.

Ruth smiled and cooed happily to herself. It was a beautiful scent.

Next was the scent of Father Gabriel Montoya, bottled in blue glass. This was a more masculine scent, although Ruth had to admit that that was a little difficult to tell. It smelled of smoke and cloves, of blood, and of a heady celebration. There was tobacco and sweet, sugared rum,
rising up and filling Ruth's nostrils as she stood there, making her slightly light headed.

So, she had now bottled les ti' Bon Anges.

And now, her sire. Beloved and hated. He was there too, in a masculine scent, rich and deep. He smelled of hot leather and musk, and something else as soft as velvet. Jack Riley in the bottle was as intoxicating as he ever had been in the flesh. Ruth had carefully added a hint of hot oil in there as well, and then the oakwood and moss of his home beneath it all, half hidden behind the pretensions. Finally lingering, almost impossible to catch for more than an instant, there was the flicker of salty tears. Ruth had caught that scent on him ever since she - hated by Ruth, loved by Jack - had died in Sydney.

Ruth held the last two bottles in her hand. One was too familiar. It was her autobiography, writ in scent. The smell of ash – sharp and bitter in the air, with the acridity of smoke hanging behind it came first, burning at the nose of any who touched it. There were a few other fleeting scents as well – incense and floral offerings that smelled like a funeral home. How else can you describe a girl born from death and burnt offerings? There was something else in there, but Ruth doubted anyone would catch that. Beneath the death and the endless mourning, she had left another gift; a feminine scent, much lighter and more delicate, with a hint of sandalwood, lavender, and the mist that rises over the water just before dawn.

This was her gift. This was her craft.