From the vial and wet on skin it's eerily accurate hot buttered toast. No fancy wholegrain sourdough, just the basic white bread toast your mother used to make when you were small. As it dries the sugar comes out, and it's a more complex, almost spiced sugar over flaky pastry. I didn't think I'd like this, because I'm not much for buttery gourmands. But I do like this! It's sweet and toasty and cozy, yet somehow light and floaty. Probably I wouldn't wear it myself but I want to slather my children in this and tuck them all in bed in the most delightful way. Mary Poppins would wear this scent

Roguery opens like an oven door wafting gingersnaps, forward and unabashed with its hot honey and refined sugar. Nutmeg and mace follow suit, and marzipan comes shortly thereafter in an orderly procession without any salinity to announce it. An unnamed spring florality blends with the sugar, and there was a moment when I thought of jellybeans and candied orange peel; I wanted to say Jasmine but that's a cop-out answer. Young flowers not in full bloom is more like it, most befitting a spring. Letting it warm on the skin tempers Grandmas sugar and ginger cookies somewhat, and a slow overture of charred walnut and rye flour helped cut through the sweet over time. Over its lifespan it gives up the heady rush of sweetness and spice for a toasty buttered finish.

Yet, something was amiss to my sampling partner. "I don't feel Rogued," the Jovial Contrarian remarks wafting his sampling paper from across the table. "I feel like it should brush up against me and then later find my wallet missing". Perhaps more earnest than its namesake, Roguery is an afternoon with Babushka baking some nut cookie in a gas oven somewhere in Eastern Europe, tutting her tongue about how skinny I've gotten despite my penchant for candy.