I had a small imp of this for a while which I wore sparingly, was really sad I didn't snag a bottle before it was discontinued, and finally got my muddy little paws on one recently, years after first trying it. It was a bit surprising in the bottle!

In the bottle: Chemical sweet cherry medicinal kiddie cough syrup. Yargh.

Wet: A sweet, yet musky, fruit smell -- with a little bit of spice. No idea what that's from. I don't actually smell pomegranate, which my skin amps like it's my job. Definitely dark fruits: plums, berries, maybe blackberries, cherries? dark grapes? Maybe cranberries and raspberries. A lot more spicy and musky than I was expecting.

Drydown: What the hell, I keep smelling something like PEPPER. Husband said he didn't think it was peppery but could see how I thought it was (what?) - more "spicy." Maybe this has cloves in it, because whenever I wear the BPAL clove note I turn into a kitchen cupboard. The musky amber/incense is really a nice combination with the fruit, though.

Hours later: I don't get the amber-to-powder, thank goodness. The scent gets a lot sweeter, the peppery note disappears (HUZZAH). Still a bit incensey. This really is a sort of dark, sweet, smokey autumnal smell -- if it were a colour it'd be a sort of deep glowing burgundy, like wine in a glass. It does fade fairly quickly, but it's really nice. As someone else said, this is the Iron Queen, not the flower-gathering girl. The resin/sandalwood/incense/musk/whateveritis (so not a perfume buff) gives it real maturity and depth. It's not quite sad - it reminds me of the last stanza of Keats' "To Autumn":

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Source: Hymn to Proserpine