Witching Hour Candle Offerings

Stay, love. Don’t rush off just yet — the night’s not done with us. The clock’s hand trembles between one breath and the next, and this, they say, is the Witching Hour — that liminal hush between highmoon hauntings and dawn’s gray hint of rebirth, when old magics stretch their limbs and even the stars hold their breath. It was in such a moment that Witching Hour took form — not crafted, but invited.

The inspiration came under a dark star-flecked sky, where the wild roses of summer had long since faded, leaving behind their pregnant hips — round and crimson, heavy with the memory of bloom and the promise of seed. They glowed like tiny baubles of living garnet against the dark tangle of bramble and thorn, each one a small, defiant act of beauty in decay. Beyond them, wild plums swelled in shadow, their skins drinking in the darkness like bruised wine. The night was thick with sweetness — intoxicating, dangerous, alive.

I gathered that scent in my thoughts and carried it home in silence. At the workbench, I warmed the wax until it shimmered like liquid moonlight, stirring in the memory of fruit and fire — rosehip’s vermillion breath, plum’s dusky juice, a curl of smoke, and the faintest hum of charred wood. The fragrance deepened with every turn of the spoon, like an incantation remembering its words. I didn’t so much blend it as summon it, coaxing sweetness and shadow into uneasy truce, while the flame at my elbow flickered in knowing approval.

As the candle cooled, the air grew heady with its secret — sweet and smoky, wild yet tender, the scent of something about to be born. It smelled of the dark moon steeped in fruit, of hearth embers still whispering to the dark, of forbidden gardens and forgotten elixir recipes. I thought of those rosehips again — what the roses gave up to make them, what they carried forward into the next turning of the year.

Light it, and the room changes its mind about behaving. The air ripens — crimson fruit and slow-burning wood, temptation draped in velvet and juice. Shadows draw near, curious but not cruel, and every creak of the floorboards sounds like the house remembering it once had a soul. This is no meek candle; it prowls, it purrs, it smolders — and it knows exactly what it’s doing.

I think of it as my companion for the veil cast between midnight and dawn — born of the dark rose’s sacrifice and the plum’s indulgent sweetness, tempered by smoke so it doesn’t devour the heart whole. When its final ember fades, it leaves behind only the faintest trace of wildness — a secret you might swear you imagined, until the night itself leans closer and whispers, I saw you too.

The Scent Weave - Alluring. Evocative. Mysterious, Sweet.

Fragrance Notes: Black Fig, Plum, Smoked Violets, Dark Rose, Clove Leaves, Musk, Labdanum.